5Times Sherlock was there for someone-1time everyone was there for him
by OpticalWonders
Summary: Sherlock Holmes isn't a coldhearted freak or psychopath. This is 5 times Sherlock is there for someone, whether as a caring friend, tenant or colleague. That is why, when Sherlock gets drugged while out for drinks with the Yard and his protective soldier boyfriend, the bastard who did it is going to pay for laying a hand on everyone's favourite detective! READ WARNINGS
1. Molly Hooper

**Hello everyone! I received such an overwhelming respond to my latest series "5 times John Watson was there for someone and one time everyone was there for John Watson". It was so amazing to see so many enjoy my work and each and every review and kodus made me smile so much. Several requested if I would do a similar series with Sherlock Holmes and I've decided to do so! I've been plotting this for a long time so I hope you guys will enjoy this work as well. Thanks again so much for the feedback, this is such a great community to be a part of!**

 **WARNINGS! While this story is going to have mentions of drugs and drugs used with the intention of sexually assault, there will be no full-blown completion of rape. This might still trigger some readers and so you should be aware. I have no intentions of offending anyone and I have (thank God) no experience or know anyone who has been victim of this kind of assault so I'm writing from my own imagination of how this might go down. You have been warned.**

Sherlock sat bend over the over the microscope in Molly's lab in the pathology department at St Barts hospital. The experiment he was conducting was rather simple and more out of curiosity than need. He could have performed it just as well at home in Baker street, but John had invited Greg and some colleagues from the Yard and the hospital over to watch some mind-numbing football game there. It was supposedly a big and important match, but Sherlock had not fancied sitting around listening to hooligan shouting all night. John had offered to relocate them all to the nearest sports bar, but Sherlock didn't want to deny his lover his 'guy night' and had reassured John he could easily spend a few hours at St Barts. John had rewarded him with a wide smile and a quick kiss before popping out for snacks and beers for the evening.

Sherlock inhaled deeply, taking in the comforting scents of disinfectants and chemicals. It'd been some time since his last visit to Molly's lab. He'd missed the atmosphere. Molly always kept her workspace and supplies in sublime order and best of all, she allowed Sherlock access to her lab whenever he wanted. As long his usage didn't interfere with her daily work, he could more or less come and go as he pleased. It was rather late so there wasn't much life outside the door to the hospital hallway, except the evening staff patrolling by now and then. Sherlock allowed his mind to emerge itself at the experiment at hand, enjoying the peace and quiet. As long as it lasted anyway..

Molly burst through the entrance, letting out a screech as the spring mechanism in the hinges caused the doors to backlash into her, making her drop her armload of papers along with a thermos of coffee. In seconds the lab's calm tranquillity had turned into a chaos of spilled coffee soaking into the fallen papers on the floor and Molly frantically dropping to her knees to save the documents. She hadn't even noticed Sherlock from his seat right on the other side of the desk yet.

"Molly?" Sherlock said questioningly, both in confusion as to why Molly was even still working at this late hour and also to make his presence known to her.

At the sound of her name Molly jumped in fright with yet another high-pitched screech. "Oh God.. Sherlock.." She exclaimed as she located him at her desk.

Sherlock's first reaction when she'd entered had been annoyance for being disrupted in his work. He knew of course that it was selfish of him since it really was he intruding on Molly's domain, but he'd been looking forward to a few quite hours with his work. That feeling quickly disappeared though as he looked her over at he still kneeling position on the floor.

Red rimmed eyes – been crying, recently

Bags under her eyes – stressed and exhausted

Papers dropped on the floor, dates on top of the pages several days old – behind on work

Thermos filled with coffee – Molly is a tea drinker, only drinks coffee in the morning for the caffeine, never in the evening

Conclusion: Molly is overworked and dangerously close to a stress related breakdown

Only two years earlier Sherlock would have made all these deductions, ignored Molly and exited quickly. Not because he didn't care back then, but because he'd had no idea how to act empathetically or interpret emotions well enough to offer the right responds. Sherlock had been burned many a times growing up for sociable unacceptably behaviour when trying to do as people expected, especially in emotional charged situations. This had resulted in his developing his defensive mechanism to either be dismissive or simply leave in such situations, earning him his labels as a 'freak' and 'psychopath' in his youth. That was until John came into his life. John had not only accepted his eccentric nature, but was also the first person (not counting his family) to see beyond his facade of indifference and recognize the emotions hidden behind, that he struggled so hard to express. John had patiently guided Sherlock to act better on his own feelings as well as others'. In the end helping him to the point where he finally found the courage to recognize and admit his feelings for John only six months ago. To find John return his feelings still counted as the happiest moment in Sherlock's life.

Sherlock admits he still struggles with offering the 'right' actions of empathy and sympathy. Despite his growing acknowledgement of his own and other's feelings, he still isn't comfortable with overloads of sentiment and emotional outburst. But right now, at this point he did feel a tug of worry seeing Molly in such a state and felt the need to try and offer at least some kind of comfort.

"Molly, are you okay?" It was a mindless question to ask as he already knew the answer and the cause, but John had advised him to let people share their own thoughts. Apparently, most people didn't appreciate having their personal problems deduced and announced publicly and clinically.

Molly looked up through her eyelashes that were still clumped together by recent tears as she slowly rose back to her feet, coffee stained papers back in her hands. She sniffed once and shifted her gaze to her feet before she spoke; "Yeah.. Or no.. I mean I'm just so far behind with work and my boss just chewed me out because I haven't finished some important biopsy analyses, I have two autopsies waiting that needs to be done tonight and with all the paperwork that follows.. God I'm rambling, sorry. it's not your problem and I'm sorry Sherlock, but you can't be here tonight. I need my lab.. I'm in for an all-nighter if I'm to have any hope finishing it all in time." Molly said apologetically as if she was asking for the moon instead of claiming her own workspace. She walked quickly over to the other side of the desk to put her papers down, staying on the other side of Sherlock. She still refused to look him in the eyes, clearly embarrassed about her appearance.

Sherlock recognized the growing feeling in his chest as empathy. He knew his treatment of Molly in the past had been less than ideal. While he'd always respected her professionalism in her work he'd taken advantage of her obvious crush on him more times than he liked to admit. He'd manipulated her to break work protocol, using her free time assisting in various experiments for his cases and at his lowest even stooped to having stolen her access key to the medical department to steal supplies for his 'self-medication' without her ever knowing. Again, John had been the one to make him realise how damaging his behaviour was, not only to himself, but most of all to Molly. Sherlock had tried to make amends as well as possible since, but it has been a process over time which he's still working on. To top it all of it's obvious, that even after learning of the romantic development in Sherlock and John's relationship six months ago, Molly still hasn't been able to diminish her crush on Sherlock completely. Though it's clear she'd making a bigger effort to hide it.

Sherlock took a deep breath as he made up his mind, he can't leave Molly in this state and God knows he owes her big from all the times she's helped him. It's time he return some of the favours. "Let me help you then. I'm more than capable to help with the biopsy analyses, I'm sure I'll be a proficient assistant doing autopsies and I can fill out paperwork as well as any." He says with an optimistic air and even offers an encouraging smile in the end.

Finally, Molly looks up from the desk top to catch Sherlock's gaze. Her entire demeanour hesitant as she answers; "Really? You'd do that.. For me?"

"Of course, consider me your very own personal assistants for as long as you need." Sherlock says, hoping his words are reassuring.

Molly looks thoughtful, but seems to brighten up just a bit. "It's going to be dull you know. It's all just time-consuming routine work. You hate that." She states.

Sherlock shrugs. "True, but I'm sure I'll manage. It's the least I can do for all the times you've helped me. I know I might not be the best at expressing my gratitude, but I very much appreciate what you do for me Molly. I'd like to give some of it back." Sherlock makes sure to portray his honesty in both his voice and expression, in the hopes it's enough to convince Molly he's serious.

It works apparently, because Molly finally manage to break out a small smile. "That's.. Really nice of you Sherlock.. That'd be lovely.. Thank you." She says in a small voice.

Sherlock claps his hands once, relieved to have his offer accepted. "Brilliant, now you go find the biopsy samples that needs to be analysed and I'll go find us a fresh pot of coffee so we can get started."

"That'd be nice." Molly agreed as she started to pull out the equipment necessary for their work.

As Sherlock wandered down the hall in search of coffee he pulled out his phone to send a quick text to John to let him know he'd be staying late at the hospital. Another habit John had worked hard to teach him as the good doctor has a tendency to worry excessively when not knowing where Sherlock is. Probably a side effect from the two of them experiencing too many kidnappings than should be possible. Granted that Mycroft is behind several of them, but still.

 _Helping Molly out with work. Not sure when I'll be home so don't wait up. Love you. – SH_

Sherlock had located a kitchen, brewed a fresh pot of coffee and was making his way back towards the lab as he received a text in answer from John;

 _That's really nice of you love. Thanks for letting me know. Arsenal is in the lead 2-0, so we're counting on a victory. May head out to a pub afterwards so we'll see who gets home first then. Love you too. – JW_

Sherlock chuckled at his mobile screen. Honestly, he'd never understand the fascination of a game consisting of a bunch of sweaty men, running around like fools, trying to kick a ball into a net. He'd choose boring biopsies and paperwork over football any day.

When he walked back through lab doors Molly was already pulling out the slides to be tested. She looked up with a face of gratitude as Sherlock poured them both a cup of coffee.

"Right then." Sherlock said as he took his place at Molly's side. "What will you have me do boss?" He asked playfully, successfully drawing a small laugh from Molly.

"Well, if you'd take a dictate while I review these slides under the microscope that'd be great." She answered as she slid the first sample into place. Sherlock nodded and pulled over the open laptop Molly had set up and tapped away as Molly meteorically announced her findings and notes to be taken down.

Together as a team Molly and Sherlock worked effortlessly. They were in sync, focused and effective as they made their way through the large stack of biopsies to work through. Afterwards they made their way to the morgue, where Molly did the autopsies and Sherlock weighted the organs, noted findings and assisted with the various tasks required. Afterwards they headed back to the lab to write up the different paperwork that needed to be completed, sent and filed. The clock on the wall read 2:55 as the final journal was filed.

Molly sat back and sighed in relief. "Thank God we're done. I'm so tired I feel like I could sleep for a week." She stretched her arms over her head to try and ease some of the tension out of her body after sitting still for so long, before turning to Sherlock with a soft smile. "I don't even want to think about how long I'd been if I'd been on my own. Thank you so much for your help Sherlock." She said, her appreciation thick in her voice.

Sherlock returned the smile and did a few stretches of his arms as well. His blazer laying on the back of his chair and shirt sleeves rolled up above his elbows, having given up his usually put together look for comfort halfway through the night and his curly hair a ruffled mess from running his fingers through it several times. "It was no problem really. Better use of my time than football with John and his Arsenal fanclub of friends." He answered.

Molly's smile seemed to falter just a bit by the mention of John. "Right. So you and John are still.." She didn't seem to know how to finish her sentence and a sense of slight panic arose in her. "Not that I hoping you aren't! I was just curious as how everything is going.. With you two, you know and.." She seemed to lose her voice yet again and started to nervously fuss with a strand of her hair.

Sherlock eyed her calmly. He sensed that this was a moment where he had to tread very carefully. It was his own fault for having giving her false hope all these years, by flirting with her whenever he wanted something. But it was time to set things straight now, he owed her that much. "Yes, things with John are good, really good. He makes me happy and have made me a much better man than I used to be."

"Great, that's great." Molly said in an attempted cheerful voice, but shifted her gaze to her lap clearly trying to hide her disappointment.

Sherlock took a deep breath and placed a hand gently on Molly's forearm, making the pathologist look back up at him. "Listen Molly. I know I haven't always treated you as well as I should have. I've been dismissive and manipulative in the past. Back then I didn't think much about what consequences my actions would have on you and I'm sorry and ashamed of how I acted. But.. I _am_ definitively gay and I do love John. I understand this might not be what you wanted to hear, but you deserve someone much better than me at any rate. I promise to do you better and I hope you know you're always welcome to ask me for my help whenever you need it as well as I hope to still count on your help with cases now and then." Sherlock ended, hoping this was a kind enough way to tell the truth.

Molly still looked a bit droopy, but still offered what to Sherlock looked to be a sincere smile. "I know.. I see how you two look at each other and it's clear you belong together. But I guess I was still selfishly hoping you'd suddenly by some miracle realise I was the one. I appreciate your honestly though, it's more than you've ever offered me in the past. He's good for you, John, you really are more considerate and happy than ever and I see that now. I know I can count you Sherlock and of course you can count on me too. You and John both."

Sherlock felt like a stone had been lifted from his conscious, having the air cleared between them had felt better than he thought and he was happy Molly didn't seem to take the hit too hard.

Afterwards Sherlock and Molly proceeded to pack up their stuff and exited the hospital out into the cold October night. They said their goodbyes and Sherlock even offered up a quick one-armed hug, something Molly had never seen him offer anyone before. They headed off in each their direction.

As Molly walked through the chilling night air she found that a supple peace had settled in her chest, that she hadn't felt in a long time. Yes, she was disappointed that the man she'd pined after for so many years was now utterly out of her limits, but it had also left room for a feeling of relief and freedom to finally move on. Not long ago she'd never imagined Sherlock would ever had offered to help with her mundane work and tonight he'd stayed with her the whole night assisting her. Though she knew now she'd never have him in her life in the romantic sense of the word she felt a new kind of gratitude to have him as a close friend and that was enough.


	2. Greg Lestrade

Sherlock burst through the doors of the homicide division at Scotland Yard, closely followed by John. The entire staff there were running around franticly and the whole scene was a whirl of barely controlled chaos of people shouting, phones ringing and constant updates announced openly. This was much different from the calm and controlled environment that was normally upheld in the division, but that had always been a contribute possible by Lestrade's leadership and ability to keep things in check under pressure. And this was the precise reason for the chaotic condition in which the whole department now found itself. Lestrade had been missing for the last 48 hours. A video disk, sent anonymously in a blank envelope, had arrived at the office only one hour ago showing a badly beaten DI tied down, slumped in a chair in a dark room, illuminated by a single lightbulb hanging from a concrete ceiling. That was all the information Sherlock had so far and he was all but fuming as he marched straight through the frenzied workspace, directly towards sergeant Sally Donovan's small office.

Donovan was clearly engaged in a discussion with two other colleagues as the detective and doctor burst through her doors, but Sherlock could care less. The woman at least had the decency too look guilty as Sherlock marched right up to her face and erupted; "This is an outrage, why wasn't I informed sooner?! Lestrade disappears for two days and the first I hear about is you calling me in urgently 20 minutes ago!" Sherlock's face is flustered, he normally wouldn't let his emotions guide him like this, but there's no helping it and his worry is greater than his eventual embarrassment for letting everyone see how affected is by the news.

The two men not involved quickly excited the office, sensing their presence wouldn't be helpful in this situation as Sally responded; "Listen it wasn't my call alright! I wanted to call you in after the 24 hour mark, but the director wouldn't allow it. You're not technically even allowed to work with the Yard. Lestrade has always been the one to handle your involvements with the department. I didn't know what to do.. But when we received the video disk this evening I knew I had to act so I decided to call you in anyway, without proper clearance." She defended, but it was obvious she wasn't satisfied with her own handling of the situation.

"And you bloody well should have done so from the start! I'm starting from scratch here and every hour wasted will be and extra hour Lestrade will suffer because of your incompetence!" Sherlock knew he had taken it too far when John's captain voice cut through the air with a sharp; "Sherlock! That's enough. Look at her for God's sake, she's acted in the best way she thought possible. We all want to find Greg as soon as possible and it'll be a hell of a lot easier if we work together." The doctor rationalised, his voice much calmer and collected.

Sherlock took a deep breath. It was rare that John would have to be the voice of logic and Sherlock being the one reacting emotionally. It only seemed to further show how shaken up he really felt in the moment. As he looked back to Sally he could see the mixture of shame, sadness and frustration etched into her face and tears gathering in her eyes after his harsh words. He knew it wasn't her fault of course and there was no use in playing the blame game anyway. She'd just been the easiest outlet for his own worry and frustrations. John was right though, they needed to work together to find Lestrade as quickly as possible.

"I.. I apologize. John is right, you didn't technically do anything wrong. Arguing is not helpful for our current situation. We need to find Lestrade and therefor I need every price of information and data you've gotten so far, no matter how small or insignificant you think it is. For the beginning though, draw me the big picture and show me the video that you received this evening." Sherlock said finally with more composure than he felt, but he needed to pull himself together. For Lestrade.

Sally too seemed to shake off her unease with a determined nod and a deep breath of her own. "Right.. Our latest case is regarding a large growing drug ring in London that calls themselves The Syndicate, who mostly deals with cocaine. The organisation has more or less eliminated all competition in London. Normally we wouldn't complain about a decreased number of drug rings and dealers in the city, but The Syndicate have accomplished their fast growing reign by brutally murdering the other reining drug lords. Now that they're one of the only contributors in town they blend the drug with other impure substances to make their cocaine supply last longer for greater profit. This has resulted in an alarming mortality rate of people OD-ing on the stuff. We've been having suspicions they might soon try to export their business outside the country. DI Lestrade have been lead investigator on the case and in corporation with the narcotics division we successfully confiscated almost 300kg of cocaine hidden in an abandoned warehouse last week. You'll get further information from the video." Sally explained with a firm voice, but as she continued her voice grew slightly more sullen while she looked Sherlock in the eyes; "Lestrade made it clear you weren't to be called you in for consultation on the case because…" But Sally didn't get to finish her sentence.

"Because of my history with cocaine abuse." Sherlock finished himself, a stone forming in his stomach. Could he have prevented this if Lestrade hadn't tried to protect him from relapsing? Since John's entrance into his life his danger nights had gotten much farther between, but yes sometimes he could still be tempted when the noise and activity in his head would threaten to overwhelm him. but he'd been clean for 5 years now and John had helped him develop alternative outlets for his hyperactive mind. Sherlock couldn't blame Lestrade though. Before John it had been Lestrade who'd fought to keep him sober. The DI had tried to keep Sherlock's mind busy with as many cases he could offer, but if the puzzles turned out to be so simple to satisfy him he'd always turned back to cocaine.

Mycroft had tried his own way of helping of course, but that had mostly consisted of forcing Sherlock off to rehab only to let him out to relapse again within three weeks. Lestrade had always been the one to be there for him when things got dirty. It had always been him who'd spent hours slowly cruising through the streets until he would find whatever skip Sherlock had passed out in and then take him home with him. He'd been the one to change Sherlock's dirty clothes when he hadn't bathed for days or when he was soaked with puke and fully clothed sit with him in the shower till he resembled a human again. He'd been the one to hold Sherlock down when abstinences raged through his body to keep him from hurting himself, often resulting in Lestrade himself receiving the lumps and bruises instead. The DI wouldn't admit it, but Sherlock knew he'd played a large part in why Lestrade's marriage had ended in divorce. No wife apricated to have an addict passed out on her couch ever so often. Eventually Lestrade had succeeded in getting him clean, but the temptation had always lurked dangerously close and his danger nights were a weekly occurrence. He'd lost count how many nights Lestrade had just 'casually' stopped by for a cup of tea only to end curled up on Sherlock's couch for the night to keep an eye out as well as to keep him company.

It had helped.. A lot.. It occurred to Sherlock he'd never truly expressed to Lestrade how much his help back then meant to him. And now the DI was in the hands of some deranged, violent madmen, who weren't afraid to murder to achieve their goals. The panic simmering in his gut almost threatened to take over him again, but he pulled in a few deep breaths. He had to stay strong now, as Lestrade had always been for him.

A firm grip on his shoulder pulled Sherlock back out of his head. He looked towards the action and locked eyes with John. The doctor's expression was stained, but showed a mix of compassion, sadness and understanding. "He only wanted to protect you Sherlock, don't feel guilty about that." John said and squeezed Sherlock's shoulder a little tighter in reassurance.

Sally stood with her arms crossed but nodded once in agreement. "He said it was for your own good."

Sherlock huffed; "Yes well.. It didn't do him much good now did it? If only I.. No, no matter it will do him no good for me to wallow in what-if's. Show me the video, I need to see it." He said with renewed focus.

Sally nodded again. "Right, sit at my desk. The video is on the screen." She answered.

Sherlock did as he was told and took a seat at the sergeant's desk and eyed the monitor. The video file open at the screen ready to be played. John and Sally stood at each side of the chair to look over his shoulder. John's arms were crossed, his face one of pinched calmness, but his eyes burning with rage towards the bastards who was keeping his mate. Sally was biting her thumbnail, a nervous habit she'd always kept in the years Sherlock had known her. She'd seen the video several times already of course, but that didn't keep the unpleasant and upset look of her face, visibly not looking forward to watching it again.

Sherlock took another deep breath, steeled himself and pressed play. As the screen came to life he concentrated his entire focus to pick up each end every detail of the room and of the people that he could gather. 

The camera was handheld by one man as another entered the picture from the right, his face hidden under a black ski mask. Lestrade was seated, unconscious, in the middle of the picture. Tied to a wooden chair.

"Wake the geezer up so we can show them we mean business." A gravelly voice sounded from the cameraman. The other man nodded and proceeded to pick up a rusty bucket that stood at the edge of the picture. He pulled the bucket back with both hands and splashed its entire content of no doubt freezing water onto the unconscious DI. Lestrade spasmed in his restraints a few times and hissed by the forceful awakening and cold shock of the water. Now that he was more upright and facing the cameraman more probably, it was easier to see the extent of damage done to his body.

His right eye was swollen shut, a busted lip and a badly bruised left cheek. A dried steam of blood fell from his left temple down his face, presumably from when he was knocked out. His usual blazer was nowhere to be seen, but his dress shirt was ripped mostly opened, showing more severe bruises on his upper torso as well as a few cigarettes burns near his right shoulder.

"Wakey, wakey detective inspector. You're on camera, you need to say hello to your audience." The cameraman laughed as he clumsily zoomed in on Lestrade's face.

Lestrade lifted his gaze and looked directly at the screen as growled in responds; "Fuck off.." which only served to earn him a shift blow to the stomach from the other man, making the DI crumple back together. Lestrade let out a pained gasp, filling the audio with coughs and his struggle to fill his lungs properly afterwards.

The cameraman zoomed back out to show the whole scene once again. "Now this is what's going to happen. I want you to tell your sweet colleagues watching right now, that they need to deliver every single gram of cocaine back by following the attached instructions that come with this disk, to the _point_! Understand old man? They'll have to listen to their big strong boss man, won't they?" The last part said with great sarcasm. The cameraman laughed, clearly loving the power he held in the moment.

Lestrade visibly forced himself upright once again, his glare even more intense this time. "Keep dreaming punk.." He said with as much force as his voice could carry, which wasn't much at the moment, but he somehow still managed to sound authoritative despite the weakness.

The next two minutes that followed were filled with the DI's grunts and cries of pain as a brutal rain of kneeing, punches and kicks were hailed down upon him from the man in the ski mask.

"That's enough." The command finally came from behind the camera and the masked brute immediately stepped back.

Lestrade was bent forward as much as his restrains allowed. A thin stream of blood spilled from his gasping mouth, down to the stone floor as he tried to catch his breath.

The cameraman spoke once again. "You see that dear Scotland Yard? If our full stock isn't returned to us within the next 48 hours as instructed we will release your DI, but it will be piece by piece."

In a last foible attempt Lestrade's strangled voice called out; "Don't list…" but the video was cut off, leaving only white static back on the screen.

Until now John had been the calmest mannered in the room, but during the video his body language had displayed a growing red-hot anger. Sally who was normally very stoic and gathered had her eyes glazed over and a look of pure sadness etched on her face.

For long moments Sherlock sat impassively, still staring at the white noise on the screen. To other's it might resemble when he was dwelling deep in thought but in reality, he was urgently fighting the nausea that was welling up in his body after witnessing those horrible scenes. Worst of all, he had no doubt about the truth behind the threats just given.

Once again the guilt ridden voice in his head echoed; _"I could have stopped this from happening. If Lestrade hadn't tried to protect me I could've prevented this altogether…"_

Ever his anchor, John was the one to pull him out of his head. "Sherlock? Sherlock don't disappear into your head right now. What did you learn from the video? How can we save Greg?" He asked, his own voice one of steeled resolve.

Sherlock blinked a few times before fully coming back to reality. He quickly opened the attached flies with instructions that had been mentioned and read through them before finally speaking; "Right.. While the man who held the camera is clearly in charge, the two on here are clearly both mere footsoldiers in a larger hierarchy. They're obviously following orders and instructions themselves. The puppetmasters of the organisation having done this in the hopes it'll protect themselves from being recognized or caught if their plan doesn't work. This was their first mistake though. The two men on here are careless and arrogant and they revealed a great deal of clues of their proximate location. This is good, however.." Sherlock hesitated.

"What?" Sally asked nervously.

"These threats are not to be taken likely. I need to further research the Syndicate's territorial reach and power positions in the city. The worst thing we can do right now is acting too rashly. We have a 48 hours deadline to work with, we'll just have to hope Lestrade can hold out for that long." The thought of having to leave Lestrade in that hellhole even a minute longer made Sherlock's stomach hurt, but he did not see any other way. He turned to John; "John, what's your assessment of his condition?"

He could tell John easily detected his worry in his eyes and voice in the way he looked at him before answering; "Hard to tell from a grainy video picture alone, but he has most likely suffered a concussion judging from the injuries on his head and face. His torso was badly bruised to begin with and the continuation of trauma done, that we saw it is almost certain he has sustained several broken and bend ribs. A few second degree burns that do not present an immediate threat besides being painful. Though his breath is stained, as far as I can tell by audio alone, he hasn't suffered a punctured lung. At the moment the most dangerous threat isn't his injuries, but the question whether he's keep hydrated or not, but there's no way to tell on here." John reported with a clinically efficiency, though his expression betrayed his calm voicing.

Sherlock stood up and turned to Sally. "There's no time to waste. Let's get to work!" He stated.

"Right, follow me. I'll show what we got so far." Sally answered with determination as she made her way out the door, Sherlock and John hot on her heels.

45 hours later:

John and Sherlock, together with the entire Scotland Yard, had worked almost nonstop since their involvement in the case to return Lestrade safely. Sherlock had even gone as far as to ask for Mycroft's assistance in the matter. The government official had offered a whole unit of special trained special ops to assist in the extraction together with a huge access to top of the line government facilities and resources. While happy for the help, that had proved essential to the mission, both Sherlock and John were surprised at Mycroft's sudden generosity. Usually he would never offer such favours without demanding several others in return, but Mycroft hadn't as much as mentioned a single 'you owe me for this'.

The police and ambulance's sirens and blinking blue lights filled the usual darkness and silence at the abandoned industrial harbour district, where Sherlock had determined the DI was being held. Mycroft's unit together with Scotland Yard's were in the middle of the extraction of the DI. Luckily the facility wasn't heavily guarded. Besides Lestrade's location Sherlock and the Yard had also been able to track down the whereabouts of the Syndicate's top leaders where most of the organization's security would be. Several other actions around the city was now also in progress right at this moment, to capture and shut down the entire ring. Once again Mycroft had offered the government's full support to make it possible.

Right now though, John and Sherlock looked on worriedly as they stood standby in cover, with several other officers outside the old warehouse holding the DI. Both men had initially insisting on going along inside, but had reluctantly agreed not to in the end.

Sherlock found himself shaking slightly and not entirely from the cold as they waited for the update. Suddenly he felt the warm hand of John clasping his own tightly, giving it a firm reassuring squeeze. The two looked at each other and shared a comforting if not bit stained smile, silently reassuring each other.

Suddenly the entire scene erupted into action as several gunshots echoed through the night followed by a few moments of palpable silence. Finally, the officer's in charge walkie-talkie sounded, signalling an incoming message. The officer picked up immediately;

" _This is team Delta reporting. All targets down. DI Lestrade alive and safe. Bringing him out now. Over."_

Everybody cheered loudly at the news and soon after, true to their word, Delta team evacuated the building. Two men carrying the DI's limp form into the cool night air straight towards one of the awaiting ambulances.

Sherlock and John both ran over as Lestrade was placed on the stretcher. Some of the officers tried to stop them but Sherlock was having none of it;

"He's my friend! He's my friend please! Get out of my way!" He couldn't keep the slight desperation out of his voice.

John stepped in behind him, his voice filled with military authority; "I'm a doctor, let us through now!"

They finally reach Lestrade and bent over the stretcher, careful not to stand in the paramedics' way too much as they worked. Despite his obvious exhaustion and pain the DI still managed the smallest smile as he saw two familiar faces.

"Knew you'd figure it out Sherlock.. Knew you'd find me.. Never doubted…" He rasped out, coughing a bit from the stain of speaking, grimacing in pain as the action aggravated his broken ribs.

Sherlock for once felt unable to speak and simply clasped Lestrade's cold hand tightly, unable to keep his eyes from glazing over slightly. He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat before speaking; "I'll always find you.. Always.. Like you always found me.."

Lestrade's own eyes shimmered a bit, the meaning and sincerity behind those words not lost on him. Despite his weak state he managed to squeeze Sherlock's hand back a little in a silent ' _Thank you'_.

"It's good to have you back mate, you almost made me worry." John joked lightly, but his own eyes sending their own message of relief to see Lestrade safe.

Lestrade huffed in amusement. "Thanks John.. But it takes more than a few punks to get me down.."

John smiled in response. "Don't I know it!"

Sherlock turned to one of the paramedics. "I'm riding along with him." He said determined.

"I'm sorry sir, but the patient is in too weak a condition. A second passenger is very unadvisable.

"Let him ride along.. Please.." Lestrade agued from below in a weak voice.

Reluctantly the paramedic nodded and Sherlock climbed along into the back of the ambulance, his hand still firmly holding on to Lestrade's all the way to the hospital.

Lestrade lay in his single hospital room, thoroughly enjoying the morphine coursing through his system. After his wounds had been cleaned and dressed, his broken bones set and dried blood cleaned off him Sherlock had once again been allowed to join him in his recovery room. John had arrived too, but left in order to find some coffee. Lestrade wasn't fooled though, he knew John had left quickly to let Sherlock and him have some privacy.

"Gerg.." Sherlock started softly, surprising the DI. Sherlock hadn't used his first name in ages and back then it had only been when the detective had lain emotionally and physically wrecked, after crashing from a particular long cocaine high.

".. I'm sorry.. This would never have happened if you hadn't felt the need to protect me from this case. I should've been there for you.." Sherlock stated, his voice sounding like he was stating a matter of fact, but the vulnerability hiding right underneath not passing the DI by.

"Don't you dare apologize Sherlock. You could never let me down.. I was a fool for not trusting you. _I_ should be the one apologizing to you."

Sherlock shook his head, his eyes firmly on Lestrade. "You had your reasons and I understand. You fought so hard to get me clean.. You sacrificed too much for me.. And I never even thanked you probably for it."

"You did." Lestrade smiled. "In your own small ways." The DI shifted slightly before continuing, his voice serious; "I'm proud of you Sherlock. I might've helped you out a bit at the start, but look at you now. You're surrounded by friends, you and Anderson even get along at crime scenes and John.. John might be the best thing that's ever happen to you." Sherlock smiled softly at the mention of John. "Like me, he saw the real you behind your sociopathic façade and he helped you become this great man I see today. That's all I ever wanted for you." Lestrade finished.

Sherlock blinked a few times, processing the other man's words. Sherlock leaned closer to the bed and held Lestrade's eyes firmly before answering; "If John was able to make me a great man.. It's only because you made me a good one to begin with."

Those words had hung in the air. Lestrade felt his chest grow with pride hearing them and neither felt the need to elaborate further on the matter. Just as well, cause in that moment John came back with his coffee and the three sat together for a while. It wasn't long however till Lestrade felt himself being pulled under my tiredness so John and Sherlock took this as their cue to leave, with the promise to come visit again tomorrow.

Now as the DI lay alone, sleep rapidly creeping in on him, he took a moment to appreciate the man Sherlock Holmes had become. Sherlock might think he had been the one who saved the detective, but Sherlock Holmes had saved him too in so many other different ways. Tonight only adding to the list. He would make sure the detective got to know that.

Just as he was about to fall asleep, the door to his room opened and a figure entered only to close the door softly again. Lestrade didn't even have to open his eyes as the figure took a seat by the bed and gently took a hold of his limp hand.

Lestrade smiled softly into the darkness. Yes, he was grateful for all the Holmes present in his life.


	3. Mrs Hudson

Sherlock sat in his armchair in the living room of 221B, absentminded plucking at his violin strings while having a staring contest with the yellow-painted smiley face on the wall. It was early morning, so the detective still wore his soft pyjamas trousers and an old army t-shirt of John's he'd 'borrowed' until further notice. John had feigned dismay at Sherlock for taking his clothes without asking, but the detective had easily deduced John's secret pleasure and possessiveness in seeing Sherlock wear his shirt. Sherlock imagined it was comparable to when men had used to concurr land and mark their new territory with their flag. Although illogical, Sherlock found he did not mind John's sentiment in this manner.

John himself had left for the surgery for the rest of the day, before Sherlock had woken up. Now as the detective sat alone in the flat he found his mood souring slowly and the feeling itself puzzled the tall brunet. Sherlock had several categories of 'bad moods'. There was the tedious dark cloud of boredom when he'd been without a challenging case for too long. But John and he had just solved a case ranked an eight just two days ago so that wasn't it. There was his brooding, slightly childish sulking whenever Mycroft was annoying and getting on his nerves. Mycroft's meddling had however decreased drastically sine he'd started dating Lestrade. Sherlock huffed at the thought, stupid Mycroft thought he was clever at hiding it, but it was obvious! Except maybe to John, but Sherlock figured Lestrade would break the news himself when ready, so he kept his mouth shut for now. There was his frantic, crawling under his skin agitation whenever his mind was racing to fast for his body to follow. Those days were the worst and by now the only times he ever got close to missing his old cocaine habits. John however had provided a brilliant substitute in most cases and luckily those days were far in between by now, though not completely gone.

But no, this was a new kind of uneasy Sherlock was feeling. He didn't feel bored or annoyed of agitated just.. Grouchy and irritated. It was then he realised with sudden clarity, he hadn't had his morning tea! Sherlock's mind started whirling. He never made tea himself, because he was rubbish at it. On days John was off work it was he who made them tea in the morning. But when John left for work, whenever Sherlock rose from bed, a warm kettle of tea kept warm by a cozy always stood ready for him. Sherlock had never really thought about it until this moment, but now the absence struck clear. Of course it has to be Mrs. Hudson who usually brings him his morning tea on days John is gone his mind quickly offered, but why not today then?

A sudden feeling of unease and worry washed over the detective, replacing his earlier irritation. He quickly jumped up from his chair and sprinted down the stairs to stand in front of the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat.

"Mrs. Hudson? Mrs. Hudson, you alright?" Sherlock calls out knocking a few times.

No answer.

"Mrs. Hudson?!" He calls again more forcefully this time followed by a louder knock on the door.

Still no answer. And he knows his landlady is home because there's light under the door and the radio is playing inside.

"Mrs. Hudson, I'm coming in!" The yells and throws the door open. He enters the kitchen finding nothing, so he makes his way further into the flat towards the living room. His heart literally skips a beat when he sees Mrs. Hudson lying unconscious on the floor, a spilled glass of water next to her.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock exclaims as he drops to his knees besides the old woman. A small weave of relief washes over him, as the second he gently cradles her head in support his landlady is already coming to, eyes blinking open with confusion as she sees Sherlock's worried face looking down on her.

"Sherlock dear? What's wrong?" She asks bemused as her eyes slowly regains some clarity and moves to sit up straighter by her own.

Sherlock can only blink a few times in astonishment.

"What's wrong?! Mrs. Hudson, you're the one to have collapsed on the floor! Are you alright? Does anything hurt? Any headache, dizziness? Do you know what day it is today?" Sherlock rambled, his heart still hammering away in his chest, his arms still supporting his landlady's back and head still afraid she might feel faint once more.

Mrs. Hudson finally seems to realize her situation as the takes in her surroundings and the detective's worried looks and ranting.

"Oh my.." She gasped softly as her eyes cleared up further. "Dear.. I've been struggling with a headcold these past few days and it has left me a bit disorientated." As the elder woman explained as she sat up straighter by her own, clearly regaining back her wits more quickly now. Sherlock still refused to remove his supporting hands around his landlady. "I remember.. I was just about to make you your morning tea dear, when I was hit with a sudden weave of wooziness. I poured a glass of water and made my way to take a rest on the couch. I must've dozed off along the way." She finished with an air of triviality and turned her eyes back to Sherlock.

Sherlock simply looked back with a gaping mouth and a look mixed of worry and alarm. "Dozed _off_?!" He exclaimed loudly in slight outrage in the way she had just explained lying unconscious on the floor as if she'd just overslept in the morning.

Mrs. Hudson returned his gaze and with a tut of dismay she tried wobbly to pull herself to her feet. "Oh dearie I'm sorry, your tea! I'll go make it right away."

But before she even had the chance to get up Sherlock had already picked her up in his arms, pulling a startled 'oh!' from his landlady, and carried her the rest of the way to the couch. Even though he didn't have John's upper body strength he found it worryingly easy to lift her frail body. Sherlock mentally berated John and Mrs. Hudson for always nagging him to eat more when clearly, she needed to follow the advice more than he did.

"Nope, no chance! You're going to stay right here and take it easy! I'm calling John to come home and look you over." Sherlock said with a definitive voice as he placed his landlady gently on the couch.

Mrs. Hudson made a noise of disapproval. "Sherlock no, there's really no need to bother poor John. I'm fine really, don't worry about silly old me."

Sherlock kneeled in front of her and held her gaze firmly. "Mrs. Hudson! You're clearly _not_ fine! Otherwise I wouldn't have found you on the floor like that! I don't care about tea I care about _you_ being alright! Your skin is flustered and your face is warm so clearly you have a fever! How am I supposed to not worry? Let me call John, please!"

Sherlock couldn't help how his voice broke ever so slightly on his last words.

Mrs. Hudson's face fell slightly as she heard Sherlock broken beg. She reached out a hand and cupped her boy's face softly. "Oh dearie, I'm sorry I scared you. But I'm okay, really. I promise I'll take it easy today and when John get home I'll let him look me over but let's not worry him while at work." She agreed softly and stoked her thumb across a sharp cheekbone in a motherly fashion.

In that moment she couldn't help but be amazed at how vulnerable and soft Sherlock looked, his usually stoic façade falling away, revealing how worried he really must have been for her. Of course she'd always known Sherlock wasn't as cold and apathetic as he always appeared to be. She'd known he was a good man the moment he'd went above and beyond to make sure her awful husband would never get to lay another hand on her again and he'd proven it many times since then. Like the time he'd thrown that man out that window just for striking her.

Sherlock looked at her with a reluctant face but nodded his approval of the agreement. "Fine.. But I'm not letting you off that easily! I won't have you move from that couch you hear me. Whatever you need done today I'll do for you." He followed up with a determined edge in his voice.

"No Sherlock, my boy, you don't have too. I'm having the ladies coming over tomorrow. I have to get shopping done, hoover the stairs and my flat and I promised the girls to bake my raspberry pie. I can take care of it myself Sherlock dear, always have." Mrs. Hudson said, with a soft smile in the end, no doubt to reassure the detective of her own capability.

Sherlock couldn't help the twinge in his chest at his landlady's words. It was true, in the years Sherlock had lived upstairs for Mrs. Hudson she'd always taken care of everything on her own. Not only her own needs and chores, but the ones of Sherlock's as well. Whenever he and John worked long cases she'd always put out dinner for when they got home, that Sherlock would eat completely absentminded. She dusted off their shelves and bookcases at least once a week. She even washed Sherlock's clothes whenever he got difficult stains as blood, mud or glass on them because she knew, despite his genius, that he'd never get them clean himself and sooner just toss out his expensive Armani shirt than try for himself. John helped of course, often doing the shopping for her on his way home from the surgery or take out the heavy bins to the curb on trash day. Sherlock however have never aided in any domestic keeping. And worse, the detective realised, he never expressed any thanks whenever Mrs. Hudson did these little deeds. He'd just come to expect them as part of his daily life. Despite Mrs. Hudson's many claims of not being a housekeeper that was exactly how Sherlock had treated her for far too long.

"Sorry Mrs. Hudson, but that's my offer. Either you let me help you through the day or I'm calling John right now." He said with finality.

"Oh Sherlock, you're impossible." She sighed in feigned dismay, hiding a small smile behind her hand. "But alright dear. I suppose I wouldn't mind a helping hand for a few things." She surrendered.

"So it's settled!" Sherlock proclaimed and clapped his hands once and started to look around the flat with an expectant look. He turned a few times and a bewildered expression came over him. He turned back to his landlady. "Just where do we keep the hoover?" He asked.

Mrs. Hudson couldn't keep back a light chuckle.

John stepped through the doors to 221B, expertly balancing a Tesco bag in one hand and a nice bottle of red wine. A gift he'd received from one of his patients earlier on the day, for having helped her find and organise the moving of her husband, who suffered from dementia, to a nice facility with great care whose service he vowed for. He figured he and Sherlock could pop it open and enjoy a nice evening in for once and he'd been looking forward to it all day. He didn't make it far from the threshold though, before the sound of voices reached him coming form Mrs. Hudson's flat.

Curious, John abandoned the groceries and wine in the hallway and went to inspect further. He knocked on the front door leading in to the landlady. He didn't want to just barge in if she was having visitors, but no answer came. He could however hear the muffled sound of laughing. John couldn't supress a smile, though it wasn't common he would be able to recognise Sherlock's laugh anywhere.

He knocked one more time for good measure but didn't wait for a reply before he nudged the door open to the kitchen with a greeting. "Evening. What's all this commotion down here?" He asked with a smile in his voice. As soon as he opened the door a lovely smell of bakery reached met him. "And what is it that smells so good?"

"Oh John, welcome home dear." The landlady greeted warmly. She was sitting at her small dinner table, a cup of tea between her hands. "Sherlock just baked a pie for my ladies' night tomorrow." She practically beamed with pride.

"Sherlock baked?!" John exclaimed in disbelief. But sure enough, at the kitchen counter Sherlock was bent over a deliciously looking raspberry pie. His face was one of utter concentration, that John had only ever seen him apply when deducing a crime scene, as he piped a beautiful pattern of vanilla cream on its top.

He soon finished though, straightening out with a satisfied smirk on his face as he admired his work before he looked to John with a smug attitude. "Don't act so surprised John. Cooking and baking is after all little else than applied chemistry, it's no wonder I'm a genius at that too."

John huffed out a small laugh. "Really? Then why are we always either living off take away, my awful cooking or Mrs. Hudson's generous late dinners if you're such a culinary genius, love?"

Sherlock shrugged. "You can't expect me to take an interest in everything I'm a genius at John, I'd have no time left for you then." The detective answered with a wink.

This time let out a full, joyous laugh. "Oh I feel special now." He turned to their landlady, who had a fond smile on her mouth from their little banter. "Do I even know what you threatened him with to have him bake for you?" He asked.

Mrs. Hudson smiled wider in a motherly fashion. "Not a thing dear! Dear Sherlock have been so sweet, helping me out all day. Hoovering, doing the dishes, shopping, made us lunch and baked. It's really been an immense help."

John was confused at first, that didn't sound like activities Sherlock would volunteer to do at all! What was happening? But just as his mind wondered Sherlock suddenly sprang into action, as when he suddenly realised some important detail or made a startling deduction. The detective leaped to him and gripped his arms tightly, his expression suddenly very serious and grave. "That's right! John! Go upstairs and find you medical bag, you need to look at Mrs. Husdon, she's unwell! I wanted to call you earlier, but she wouldn't let me." He said, worry evident in his voice.

John looked to her at the table. "Is that true Mrs. Hudson? Have you been ill?" He asked, immediately slipping into doctor mode.

She weaved a hand in dismissal. "It's nothing John really, I just felt a little lightheaded this morning. I feel much better already, there was really no need to bother you at work."

"She fainted John! I found her collapsed on the floor!" Sherlock interrupted and pointed to the spot where he'd found his landlady earlier in the day.

"That certainly doesn't sound too good. Let me just get my bag, I'll be back in one minute." John said as he raced up the stairs to find what he needed.

15 minutes later John finished his small examination. He casually wrapped his stethoscope around his neck after having listened to their landlady's lungs. "You have a very slight rattling in your lungs, your temperature right now is normal, but I bet it was elevated in the morning causing you your dizzy spell. Luckily it seems Sherlock have been a very good caretaker and done all the right things. Made sure you took it easy, kept your bloodsugar up and made sure you've stayed hydrated. A mild cold I'd say, you already seem to be past the worst of it so just as long as you don't stain yourself too much the next few days you'll be as good as always." John concluded.

"Thanks John." Mrs. Hudson smiled and squeezed the doctors hand gently. She then looked to Sherlock who stood right behind John, having looked on frettingly the whole time. "You see dear, nothing serious. Thanks to you I'll be up and running again in no time."

Sherlock at last seemed to ease up a bit at the diagnosis. He went and sat down next to her on the couch and without a word wrapped one arm around her. He didn't look directly at her as he murmured. "Just.. Don't scare me like that again. There's no home in Bakerstreet without you."

Mrs. Hudson didn't answer, but her eyes shined bright with an unshed tear of happiness as she leaned into the embrace with a wide smile. John watched the scene with fondness, his love for Sherlock Holmes suddenly growing impossible stronger. No matter what the detective would ever claim, Sherlock Holmes was the farthest from a sociopath anyone could be, that much was clear. He'd simply been burnt and hurt by a world too many times to let his guard down publicly. But here in the safe confinements of their home Sherlock didn't have to hide himself. His obvious worry and care for their landlady was heartwarming and John's chest swelled at the sight.

However, it had been a long day and the moment was interrupted by the doctor's growling stomach. He tried to cover it up with a cough, but the damage was done. Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson both looked at him. "Oh John that's right, you must be terrible hungry after such a long day at work. Why don't I whip you boys up a quick nice dinner?" Mrs Hudson suggested and made to get up, but Sherlock pulled her gently back down. "Not tonight Mrs. Hudson. I guess, just this once since I already did the shopping, I could bless you with my culinary genius and make us all dinner tonight." Sherlock turned to Mrs. Hudson. "But just this once, I'm your tenant you know, not your housekeeper." He said jokingly and Mrs. Hudson let out a laugh. He then turned to his boyfriend. "John why don't you fetch the redwine you received earlier today and enjoy a glass with Mrs. Hudson while I get started?" Sherlock said, his airy attitude slowly finding its way back, but smiling fondly at his doctor.

John flashed him a wide smile at the suggestion. "That sound like a lovely idea Sherlock." And that was exactly what John went to do.

45 minutes later all three occupants of 221 Bakerstreet sat together at Mrs. Hudson's small dinnertable and enjoyed, what indeed was a lovely homecooked meal by Sherlock Holmes. They shared the rest of the wine while John and Sherlock caught Mrs. Hudson up on their latest cases. A round of laughter escaped them all as Sherlock described how a suspect had been caught by John when the man had actually slipped in a bananapeel during his escape.

Mrs. Hudson looked on with fondness as Sherlock narrated with great enthusiasm, his arms flailing and gesturing madly to add more drama to his story. She realised as she sat there, with her two young tenants that this might be the happiest she had ever been in her life. When she'd first met Sherlock a few years back he'd been a distant, pale and hollow looking man. His eyes emotionless and dulled from what she'd later learned, stemmed from prolonged cocaine abuse. And though he'd been helpful even back then, making sure her vile husband would never lay a hand on her again, it had been with a withdrawn mannerism he'd acted towards her. She'd soon realised that this was because Sherlock Holmes didn't trust others easily. She'd decided back then that she wouldn't let him simply slip out of her life after his help and offered him dinner, since it looked like he hadn't eaten for days. He'd looked at her with that piercing look he still got today, seeming a bit hesitant at first, but finally accepting in the end.

Since then Sherlock and she started a steady routine, once a week he would pop in and Mrs. Hudson would feed him up (sometimes she doubted if he ever ate besides when he was with her). Sometimes she'd let him kip overnight on her couch. Sometimes a handsome silverhaired officer would stop by and look in on Sherlock when he was with her. Sherlocked had started to open up to her more and more over the course of time and Mrs. Hudson came to understand why the poor thing had trustissues. Why she had a half a mind herself to wrench the necks of all those closed minded bastards who'd treated Sherlock so viciously through most of his years. When finally, that nice officer had managed to get Sherlock more or less clean and sober she saw it as her chance to offer Sherlock to rent her upstairs apartment, on the condition that he would stay of the drugs. He had been clean ever since and after he'd met John she'd had the privilege to watch her dear boy grow and thrive so much better both emotionally and physically.

She'd been so young when se married and she'd never wanted to bear children into the world her husband had led them into. But somewhere along the way she'd come to look upon Sherlock as her unbiological son. If there were a fundament on which she could build her life and beliefs on, it was the fact that her dear boy would always watch out for her and love her in his own special ways like he had today and that's all a mother could wish for.


	4. Sally Donovan

Sherlock greeted Sally Donovan with a firm stare and a slight nod as he entered the offices of the NYPD's homicide division. The sergeant replicated the gesture her own stare on the cold side. Ever since John had rescued her from being struck down by a car four months ago and the time Sally had defended John so fiercely when that bastard Ethan Davis had insulted him after damaging his injured shoulder, the pair had had a sort of truce between them. Sally no longer greeted him with 'hello freak' or referred him as 'the psychopath' anymore. In turn Sherlock no longer undermined her work or deduced her private affairs publicly. It had worked out relatively fine for most part, but after Sherlock had accused her of incompetence and uselessness when Lestrade had been kidnapped only three weeks ago it had made a huge crack in their already brittle ceasefire.

Since Lestrade was still out of commission, recovering from his kidnapping, Donovan had taken temporary command of the division. Sherlock, not willing to admit it out loud to anyone else still felt guilty Lestrade suffered in an effort to protect him from his past. So, the detective had taken it upon himself to offer as much help he could by solving as many of the cold cases as possible (even the boring ones) and assisting lightly in a few ongoing cases, despite them also being far under his level of interest, but he figured he owed the DI that much. Still he didn't stay for pleasantries and hurried down to return the evidence he'd used to successfully deduce and solve another two cold cases. He'd hand in his reports on his findings to Donovan on the way out.

Sally supressed her scowl as Sherlock entered the building once again, but nodded in greeting anyway. She allowed his presence, but it didn't sit well with her that she had to accept so much freelance help from the detective just to keep up with the workload. Until now she'd never realised how much crap Lestrade had to deal with on a daily basis. The administrative work alone was driving her crazy. Management was more or less breathing down her neck, pushing for results and reports almost every hour. She had to review every single case going through the department, knowing if something went unnoticed or she fails to make sure the chain of evidence is upheld it's all on her head and it's stressing her out. Just having to keep updated on all ongoing operation, cases and daily activity in the department is so confusing and she keeps getting things mixed up. She'd always been used to working one case at a time a privilege she'd taken for granted she realises now. It isn't even a busy time for the division and she's completely overwhelmed. No wonder Lestrade turned sliver fox so young, everyone upholding this position is bound to go grey early she thought bitterly. And then to think that Sherlock is actually taking a lot of the current workload willingly. Usually Lestrade had to put in an enormous amount of time and work to have Sherlock corporate and even then, Sherlock and John almost never followed protocol in a case. Just thinking about the mountains of paperwork that alone would require to sort out left the temporary DI almost dizzy. She had absolutely no idea how Lestrade managed this job as well as he did. These past three weeks had therefor led Sally to the disappointing realisation, that she was nowhere near as ready for this job as she'd thought herself to be. But admitting shortcomings and inadequacies had never been in her nature. So instead of admitting her need for help and support, her mood had soured more and more these past weeks and she'd started to let the stress and frustrations out on her colleagues.

"Where the hell is the evidence list for the Johnson case?! It should be on my desk by now, this is unacceptable!" Sally shouted out from the doorway of her (well technically Lestrade's) office, sending a wide glare all throughout the room.

Most of the people kept their eyes down and continued tapping away at their computers, hoping not to be caught in the crossfire of Sally's rage. Tentatively Claire Morrison stood from her seat and approached the angry stand-in DI with the list in hand.

"Sorry miss, I finished writing it up as fast as I could." She excused softly, daring to lift her gaze to meet Sally's and handed the document over.

Sally snatched it out of her hands. "My bloody grandmother could type faster than you! Just make yourself useful for once and bring me some coffee, black. Think you can manage that simple task?" the sergeant/ DI snapped crudely.

Claire nodded firmly, but not making any more eye contact. "Yes miss." She almost whispered.

"Well then stop just standing there like a moron, move it!" She looked up throughout the room "and all of you back to work, we don't have time for slacking off!" Sally barked and marched back into her office, failing to notice how several of the surrounding officers fitted her with glares and shaking heads.

Fact was, Sally had never connected well with most members of the force. No one had ever had any reason to dislike her and many respected her work and resourcefulness as a sergeant, but beside maybe Anderson and DI Lestrade to some degree, no one would use the term 'friend' about Sally Donovan. But these last three weeks had been hell for all, not only having to survive the chaos that arose when their DI had been kidnapped, but ever since Donovan had been in charge the workplace had been hell. Acting DI Donovan was short tempered, unorganized and just outright disrespectful and rude towards everyone on the force and it was starting to affect everyone's mood and performance on the job.

Robertson leaned back in his seat to catch Jackson's attention behind him.

"This is getting ridiculous. We shouldn't allow her to treat us like this." Roberson half whispered.

"Did you see Claire? I think she almost made her cry." Jackson said and eyed the misty-eyed Claire as she half ran towards the kitchen to fetch the coffee.

"Someone ought to teach that Donovan a lesson, show her we aren't just her minions to treat and berate as she pleases." Robertson said and gestured with a sharp indexfinger to mark his point.

Jackson chewed his bottom lip in thought for a moment before answering. "Yeah.. And I think I know just how to do it."

Robertson's eyebrows shot up at that. "Really? Do tell."

Sally returned from lunch with sigh as she saw the stack of papers waiting for her at the desk. She sat heavily on the chair and reached for her pen, only to notice it had disappeared. She looked around her desk area but couldn't find it. She looked under the desk and around it to see if it had dropped to the floor, but it wasn't there either. Her annoyance was already growing rapidly, but she forced herself to take a calming breath and opened the drawer where the spare pens were stored, but that too was empty. She felt her cheeks grow hot with anger, she was sure there'd been a whole bunch of spares when she went to lunch, someone was clearly making a mockery out of her and she wasn't having it! She slammed both her hands forcefully down and jumped to her feet, almost knocking the deskchair over in the process. She strode right back out into the bullpen and openly exclaimed.

"Okay, who the hell is the bloody idiot who has stolen all my damn pens during lunch?! You think this is a fucking playground. I want the one responsible to come forward right now!" As she howled she turned, fitting everyone with a hard glare as if she could copy Sherlock and deduce who the culprit was if she first made eyecontact.

One of the young constables, Jackson was his name, chose to speak up. "Hey, take it easy Donovan, we have a whole supply room full of pens downstairs. Can't you just fetch some more?"

Sally shot daggers at the man with her eyes. "Spare me your idiocy Jackson." (oh God, she was starting to sound like Sherlock wasn't she?) "The point is I won't tolerate this kind of preschool behaviour in the workplace!" She hissed angrily.

Jackson threw his hands up in mock surrender. "Just saying is all."

Sally huffed her anger only growing, but she didn't have the time for this nonsense. "This will have consequences when I find out who did this!" She growled with one last look around the room, before she turned on her heel to find some more pens in the downstairs supplyroom.

She was still fuming silently as she reached her destination. She opened the door to the tiny room, filled with all those small essentials for every larger office. She reached for the contact to light up the small space, but to add to insult the small lightbulb did not work. Sighing for maybe the hundredth of times she turned on the small flashlight on her phone to illuminate the small space. There had to be hundreds of items stacked on the many shelves and the pens were nowhere in sight. She stepped into the room to continue her search, but just as she entered the door slammed behind her and to the sergeant/ DI's fright heard the lock click and muffled voices penetrating the door.

"So sorry miss Donovan, but we all think you might need a bit of a timeout." One of the voices said. It was another constable named Robertson, Sally recognized.

"What the hell!" She exclaimed and started pulling at the door, lighting the handle up with her phone, the only light in the room. It wouldn't budge of course, she'd heard it being locked after all. Sally could feel her heartrate starting to elevate but forced herself to take deep breaths. "Robertson, let me out this instant, that's an order!" She commanded with a greater authority than she felt at the moment.

"We will Donovan, after you've had some time to consider your treatment of your colleagues. We'll come back when we think you've cooled down enough."

This time it was Jackson who spoke. Those bastards must have planned this all along. "You open this door right now or I won't be responsible for what I might do to you when I get out!" Sally yelled. Her heart was starting to pound, and her breaths were already getting shallower by the minute.

"Hmm, seems like this might take a while Robertson. We better get back to work and return later when she leans how to behave." Jackson said with clear amusement in his voice.

Sally listened with a rising panic as the two pairs of footsteps started to move away from the door. "No! No wait! Let me out! You can't bloody leave me here! LET ME OUT!" She all but screamed at the end but it was no use, both men had left already.

Sally turned around, back to the door. Beads of sweat were gathering at her temples, her breath hitching, realising she was dangerously close to hyperventilation. She moved the light franticly around the small room, just then realising in her half panicked stage that she was holding her phone. She quickly opened the screen only to find absolutely no bars available down here to call or texts for help. She couldn't help letting out a small cry of despair and slammed the back of her head back against the door. She once again tried to bring her breathing under control, this just couldn't be happening, not here, not now. The room was closing in on her, suffocating her slowly. It was getting too hot, she clawed at her collar and in a frenzied panic practically ripped off her thick jumper that was over her dress shirt, but it didn't help. She was full out hyperventilating by this point. It was too late. She was now in the midst of a full-fledged panic attack. She dropped her phone to the floor, turned around and pounded at the door as hard as she could screaming; "HELP! HELP ME SOMEONE PLEASE!" She stopped to let out a few heaving sobs. "LET ME OUT OH GOD PLEASE LET ME OUT, SOMEONE!"

Sherlock was on his way back from evidence, it had taken a lot longer than it should have, but it had been accidental. While returning evidence he'd come across a mixed rubiks cube on one of the many shelves, confiscated from an old closed case from the eighties. He'd picked it up and turned a few segments out of curiosity fully intending on putting it back right away and go deliver his reports so he could return home to John. But once he'd started he slowly became intrigued and had been unable to put the damn thing down until he'd unravelled the technique to solve the puzzle. It had taken him almost two hours, but in the end all sides had been neatly sorted and Sherlock felt satisfied as he left. However, as he walked towards the stairs to return to the offices his ears quickly picked up on something. It sounded like.. Crying? Not just crying, but heaving sobbing. Sherlock frowned and picked up his pace a little. The sobbing was definitely getting louder, he was getting closer to the source. Suddenly the sobbing was interrupted by desperate pleas;

"PLEASE SOMEONE, ANYONE! CAN SOMEONE HEAR ME?! LET ME OUT PLEEASE!"

Sherlock stopped for a moment in shock, that sounded like Sally Donovan. But in all the years Sherlock had known her he'd never heard or seen the woman cry or beg for anything. It seemed utterly out of character for the usually stoic and proud, even if often annoying, woman. The desperate sobbing picked up once again and Sherlock quickly pulled out of his shocked state and followed the sound in a run the last of the way. The sounds let him to stand in front of the Yard's supply room, it was clear it came from behind the door. Sherlock pulled at the handle testing, finding it locked as he suspected before calling out;

"Sally? Are you in there?"

"Oh God!" Sally cried on the other side of the door followed by the sound of desperate scratching on the wood. "Sherlock?! Get me out of here pleasepleaseplease.. I can't breath get me out!" Sally whimpered pounding on the door.

Sherlock could hear her frantic breathing and the utter desperation in her voice. He didn't have to be a consulting detective to figure out Sally was having a fullblown panic attack behind the door. He'd seen John have them a few times before. How PTSD and flashbacks would still haunt his poor doctor when certain triggers happened. Sherlock knew just how awful things could escalate and this was something he wouldn't wish to happen to his worst enemy, Donovan included.

"Sally listen to me." Sherlock pressed himself against the door, his voice was loud enough so it could travel through the wooden barrier, but still portrayed a calmness he knew was important to maintain. He had no idea how Sally had ended up locked in the small room, but he'd worry about that later. First thing first. "You're hyperventilating. I promise you I'll get you out, but you need to calm down and take some deep breaths for me, okay?"

"I-I can't.." Sally hiccupped, still crying.

"Yes you can Sally, just listen to me and do as I say. First sit down on the floor." Sherlock started to dig through his pockets at the telltale sound of Sally slowly sliding down to the floor. Sherlock kneeled down at the floor himself so he was at eyelevel with the lock as he kept rummaging through his many pockets, he knew he had it on him somewhere. "Good, now put your head between your knees and take as deep an inhalation as you can." The detective mimicked the action too as he listened carefully to Sally's slightly more raggedy breath. "Very good Sally and out." Again Sherlock followed by example, hearing Sally follow as best as she could behind the door. Finally he found what he was looking for in his blazers inner chest pocket, his lockpick set! "You're doing fine, now keep it up. I'll have you out soon, promise." He assured her once again as he began working the lock with deep concentration. Sally whimpered weakly as she tried to keep up the calming breathing pattern but finding it hard.

After about five minutes Sherlock finally managed to work the lock open. He'd only managed to open it a fraction before Sally bolted out of the room and straight into his arms, clinging to him as if he was a lifeline, sobbing into his neck. Sherlock was taken aback at first. If someone had asked him who'd be the last person in the world to ever embrace him, Sally Donovan would have been pretty high on that list. But as fate would have it, he was actually not a stranger dealing with someone suffering a panic attack. It's human nature to seek comfort and protection when faced with danger and Sally's systems is clearly running all the red warning lights still. So he did what everyone else would do and wrapped his arms protectively around the small frame and simply allowed her to calm down in her own time. He even went as far as stroking her lightly on the back and make a soothing noise as her tears continued to fall.

They stood like that for about ten minutes before Sally finally calmed down enough to slowly pull herself out of the embrace. Her eyes were swollen and red, her hair and clothes were a mess and a look of embarrassment started to bloom on her face as the realisation she'd just embraced Sherlock Holmes and cried on his shoulder.

Sherlock however decided to bite her embarrassment in the bud and interjected her thoughts. "Don't be embarrassed. You suffering from severe claustrophobia is not something you can supress. You should never apologize or feel ashamed for reacting to something beyond your control."

Sally looked at him with big eyes. She turned her head back down and sniffed before looking up again, some of her usual posture returning to her again. "Thank you.." She said simply. Her voice was a little rough from her crying and screaming, but both her voice and eyes were sincere with gratitude.

Sherlock offered what he hoped to be a small reassuring smile in return. "Don't mention it." He turned a tad serious again thereafter. "But if you don't mind me asking, how did you end up locked in the supply room?"

Sally turned her head and wrapped her own arms protectively around herself. "It doesn't matter.. I should get back to work." She tried to brush off. But Sherlock couldn't help but notice how she tensed up when referring to return upstairs to work.

The detective made up his mind then and there. "You'll do no such thing. You'll return home and get some rest, the department can survive half a day without you."

Sally went quiet, but in the end she nodded her consent. "Alright.." She headed for the stairs, but Sherlock caught her wrist before she could go anywhere. "There's a backdoor further down this hallway, go through there instead."

Sally frowned. "I need my bag.. My jacket.." She countered.

"Wait here. I'll go fetch it for you." Sherlock offered and disappeared up the stairs before Sally could argue.

Sherlock entered the filled office space and took a wide look around the room. It didn't take him long to pinpoint two men, sitting at their desk's but grinning and smiling at each other like idiots, clearly very satisfied with themselves. Seeing how Sally reacted at the notion of returning up here it was a no brainer to figure out someone had deliberately locked Sally into that room, no doubt in a twisted way to teach her a lesson of some sort. And while Sherlock had never been the biggest fan of Sallys' he'd never condone the use of such awful methods. Not knowing Sally had claustrophobia was no excuse and these bastards should be made aware that such actions is not without consequences.

Without pause the detective marched right over to the two men, pulled up at chair, sat down in front of them both and folded his hands neatly in his lap.

"Afternoon gentlemen, would either of you happen to know where I can find Sally Donovan?" He asked politely.

The men shared a quick look and a smile before one of them replied, the name on his desk said his name was Robertson. "Ah sorry mate, you just missed her. Don't think she'll be back for a while." He smirked.

Sherlock had given them a fair chance to come clean and confess. They had not done so and had now even indirectly admitted that they'd planned to leave Sally down there for a good while yet. The detective took a deep breath before he leaned slightly forward in his chair, before fitting both men with one of his terrifying fake smiles and continued in the politest manner. "If any of you ever lay a hand on Sally Donovan again or pull any stunt like the one you did today I'll make personally sure that your wife.." Sherlock pointed to Jackson before continuing; "Will know that you're having an affair with her twin brother." Jackson's eyes went comically large and his entire face got paler than a ghost. "And prove that you.." Sherlock then pointed to Robertson. "have been stealing large fortunes of money from all the charities you so often 'generously' helps organizing." Robertson looked positively sick at that moment. Sherlock's hands went to their prayerlike position and his fake smile grew ever the slightest larger. "Now, have I made myself clear?" Both men nodded madly, but both were deathly silent. Sherlock clasped both his hands on his thighs and stood. "Good now that's settled I'll take my leave, but just remember what I said, I won't forget." He said with a teasing wiggling indexfinger before making his was to Lestrade/ Sally's office to retrieve her things.

As Sally lay in bed that night she reflected over the days events. The uncomfortable feeling of residue fear had still not completely left her system and she honestly wouldn't know what she would've done or what would've happened if Sherlock hadn't come to her aid when he did. The detective had been surprisingly good at helping her through the worst of her panic and she had to admit, she'd felt completely safe in his arms as he'd calmed her down. Normally it'd have taken her hours to compose herself after such an intense panic attack, but Sherlock had been really comforting. They'd never been big fans of each other, but lately is seemed like things were beginning to shift in their perception of each other. It was.. Good.. And when she'd needed him he'd been there for her. At that point Sally silently swore to herself, that in the future she'd at least try to be there for Sherlock if need be.


	5. Charlie (Homeless network)

It was nearing midnight and Sherlock stood at the window looking down at Bakerstreet while absentmindedly playing a slow, slightly melancholy melody on his violin he made up as he went. It was a clear night, the stars for once shining brightly on the usually cloudy London sky. John had gone to bed early suffering from a headache after a patient earlier in the day had struck him an, albite accidental but true right hook, when he'd wussed out of his tetanus shot in the last possible moment and had acted out of reflex. Knowing John to be stubborn enough to refuse taking any pain medication unless it he was more or less in agony, Sherlock had picked up his violin and started playing in the hopes it would lull his lover faster into a calmful sleep. He knew it'd worked by now, but still kept playing, his mind wandering aimlessly around in an almost meditative manner. He'd found he'd started to enjoy these quiet nights in more and more. More than he'd ever thought he would. Of course he'd always love the thrill of a good case and the ecstasy of a truly compelling puzzle, but since John and he had evolved their relationship to include the romantic sense he'd also learned to enjoy the soothing aspects of domesticity. Small things he'd always taken for granted while he'd been alone. Things like coming home to be greeted with a soft smile and a kiss, making tea for John only to hear the appreciative hum his doctor always made when taking the first sip, the lovely feeling when John would absentmindedly start to trace soft patterns on his back when the detective lay sprawled over the couch and resting his head in the other's lap, while watching crap telly. Or like now, helping his love find rest by playing the violin softly late into the night if needed.

Not so many years ago, Sherlock would have berated the idea of anyone telling him this would be his life in the future. Back then the only shadow of happiness he could find would be on the rare occasions Lestrade could let him in on a good case or when he'd shot his veins full of cocaine. Back when he still believed in his 'alone protects me' mindset. And it hadn't been easy to change his way of life. Mycroft had tried in a way as well as his parents, but none of them had been very adapt at handling his troubles. It'd taken Lestrade years to even gain a modicum of trust from the detective despite never faltering in his want to help him, something Sherlock had taken for granted for far too long, but was working on changing.

All his childhood and teenage years he'd lived through so many failures to fit into a society, that left little room for any forms of eccentricities or the slightest abnormality. At every point in his life when he'd made efforts to be accepted socially by his peers he'd either been humiliated, used, mocked or on more than one occasion literally beaten down. The pain of repeatedly rejection and breakdowns had caused Sherlock deciding to start building his tall walls of emotionlessness and indifference in his late teens. He'd then labelled himself as a high functioning sociopath to shield himself for further let-downs. His walls had only grown thicker and more impenetrable as the years went by. With no levelminded associates to offer any forms of support or means of outlet he'd found himself turning to drugs to settle his racing mind and tendencies to selfloathing. It didn't take long for his habit to turn into a fullblown addiction.

And while it was mostly Lestrade's accomplishment that he'd gotten clean in the first place, Sherlock had never known true peace or happiness.. Not until John Watson had entered his life. John had managed to crack his carefully crafted, fortified walls within the first 24 hours of knowing him. In that time the doctor had praised him more than anyone had ever done in his entire life, called him brilliant and amazing and not out of some misguided impression or false social dictation, but really meaning it. He'd even gone as far as kill a man for him when his life had been threatened and not feeling a shadow of regret afterwards. So deep was his conviction of how much Sherlock's life was worth within hours of knowing him.

The melody had turned into a beautiful sonnet, portraying the detective's mood. He still had a hard time believing John had actually chosen him to be his. And thinking back on it know, Sherlock had decided that all that pain and heartache had been worth it all for leading him to John Watson.

The detective ended the long piece with one final drawnout note and carefully placed his instrument back into its' protective casing. His head always felt clearer after playing his heart out. His musings had now resulted in a sudden urge to join his doctor in bed. However, he didn't get the chance to proceed on his want as a soft, but determined knock sounded at the door. He hadn't heard the ascending steps on account of being so thoroughly engulfed in his playing, but at once his mind started deducing;

5ft 6in person judging by the placement of the knock, most likely male.

Approximately 5 seconds pause between first to second knock, indication apprehension at coming so late but determined enough to not falter in the decision to do so, so the errand is important and urgent.

Mrs. Hudson had retired hours ago and therefor couldn't have answered the door, so whoever it was is familiar with the secret location of the unmarked key Sherlock had hidden in the ally at Porter street. The only people to know about said key being John and selected individuals from his homeless network to use in emergencies.

All these deductions went through Sherlock's head in seconds. As he moved quickly to answer the door he already knew who was on the other side.

"Dexter, come in." Sherlock said as he opened the door for the thin teen standing on the staircase landing.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm so sorry to disturb you this late at night but I didn't know where else to go." The boy rattled off quickly. He was shivering from the London chill, his eyes were large and vivid and his dark black hair a dishevelled mess on top of his head.

"Don't be. I told you my door is always open. Now quickly, get inside and get warm you're shivering, are you sick? Do I need to fetch John?" Sherlock asked, scanning the boy from top to bottom in an attempt to figure out the boy's distress.

Dexter weaved off the detective's concerns. "No, no.. Just a bit chilled is all. I'm not here for me."

Sherlock huffed in consternation. "Handed over your jacket to someone else again I see? You promised John you'd stop doing that." Sherlock berated slightly, but already knew it was no use to lecture the boy further. Dexter always did this, handing out his scarfs, jacket or gloves to others in the network he felt needed them more.

Dexter was one of his main informants on the streets, the boy had been part of the network since he was 20 and now having just turned 28. He knew practically everybody and had wide connections throughout the city. He was a good lad, everybody on the street trusted him and confided in him. That's why Sherlock had chosen him as a sort of union representative for his homeless network and trusted him with the knowledge of the emergency key to Bakerstreet, so both he and John could be reached in emergencies. John was luckily very supportive of Sherlock's effort to offer the homeless a sort of security with their 'open door offer' and Bakerstreet had often opened up as a free clinic for the homeless in need. Often John also brought his carryon med-kit, like the one he'd used in the army, and patrolled through the streets of London together with Sherlock offering medical treatment and basic necessities to various homeless. They did it more often during the winter months. occasionally resulting in the expansion of their network and some very grateful people.

But the boy shook off the comment quickly. "I know Mr. Holmes, but that's not important right now. It's Charlie."

Sherlock immediately focused. Charlie was a relatively new addition in the network. A very troubled young 14 year old boy. He wasn't strictly speaking homeless, but had been placed in his fourth foster care home in London 5 months ago. When Charlie's biological parents hadn't simply neglected and ignored his existence they'd been both physically and mentally abusive. When authorities had finally stepped in the poor lad had been so affected that he'd acquired deep and profound trust issues to all other parental and authoritative figures, which often resulted in him lashing out either verbally or physically. Most foster homes simply gave up on him and sent him back into the system. Finding it was hard to control or deal with a forceful 14 year old boy.

Charlie had started taken to the streets a lot since arriving to London. Dexter had taken him in in his neighbourhood and kept an eye on the boy, simultaneously bringing him into the network. Sherlock and John had met him a few times. Charlie did not connect well with John at all. The doctor's military stand and natural authoritarian aura immediately set off the boy's alarm bells and had him refuse to talk to John or let the doctor examine some bruised knuckles he'd gotten from a fight in his school. Sherlock however had been able to connect with the boy better. Sherlock knew how it felt to be unwanted, discarded, be a misfit and to be the outcast. It didn't take a consulting detective too see how bad Charlie was struggling. He'd take on a tough exterior, but was in reality fighting to keep himself going every day. Sherlock knew because he'd been just the same at that age and he'd needed to turn to drugs to dwell those demons.

Sherlock was already pulling on his Belstaf before throwing one of John's older Parka jackets at Dexter to put on. "Where is he?" He asked determined as they started a rapid decent down the stairs.

"He's at the at the old Millennium Mills warehouse. He's really out of it. I'm afraid of what he might do this time." Dexter said as he followed down, pulling on the jacket without comment.

"You were right to come get me Dexter." Sherlock said and immediately flagged down a cab as they walked out on the street.

Normally John would have accompanied them, but for one the doctor had been feeling unwell when going to bed and probably wouldn't be up for a midnight exploit through the city in the cold weather. Secondly, having John present while Charlie was having an episode wouldn't be productive in calming the teen down, worst case and more likely it would even have a negative effect on the boy. So Sherlock made the decision that it be best he and Dexter went alone. As they made their way in the cab Sherlock sent off a quick text to John, letting him know where he was and what he was doing. A promise the detective had made his doctor after several hardtaught lessons were. Luckily the streets had little traffic as it was a week night so they reached their destination in little less than 20 minutes.

"This way Mr. Holmes." Dexter eagerly led on, half running towards the old rundown building, clearly worried about his young ward.

Sherlock threw the cab fair and a small tip at the cabbie and quickly followed the lanky teen.

They entered the dark building trying to locate the boy. "Damn, I know he came here, but not where he went. He doesn't know I followed him, but he was so upset I thought I should fetch you sooner rather than later Mr. Holmes, he actually listens to you for most part." Dexter muttered softly.

Sherlock turned on the light on his cell phone to better light their way. "Any idea what set him off?" He asked.

Dexter let out a huff. "Not entirely, but from what I could gather something about a conversation he overheard at home. Whatever it is it's gotten him really upset."

Sherlock only hummed in responds as they continued to search for the boy. After only a few minutes they heard a loud banging noise from above, followed by another and another. Sherlock and Dexter shared a quick look and then marched towards the noise. The sounds grew louder and louder as they ascended a long series of staircases leading to the roof of the building. They finally reached the top and entered onto the rooftop. Sherlock had a brief uncomfortable flashback to the last time he'd been on a rooftop, but quickly pushed the memory aside, this wasn't the time or place for that.

They quickly located Charlie who was busy bashing everything in his way with a steal pipe he must have picked up somewhere. Currently he was working on destroying on of the buildings many titanium chimneys. The boy was heaving and grunting with the effort, swinging with all his might, each hit echoing loudly into the wind. It was obviously an attempt to let out his frustrations and sadness that was etched so clearly in his entire person. Charlie didn't even realise he was no longer alone he just kept on his oneman rampage.

"Charlie." Sherlock called out over the wind.

The boy whipped around, caught by surprise. His look was almost feral, but Sherlock could easily detect the deep anguish and hurt underneath the surface.

"What are _you_ doing here?! Dexter you arsehole! Did you bring him?! Just leave me the hell alone!" Charlie shouted angrily and raised the pipe still in his hand in a half threatening stance.

Dexter took a half step back but Sherlock stood his ground unfaced, convinced Charlie had no real intent in hurting either of them.

"Dexter was right in fetching me Charlie. I'm here to help you. What got you so upset?" Sherlock asked calmly.

The detective observed as Charlies' breathing speed up slightly and his face flamed up at the question. Anger, sadness and a heartbreaking mixture of emotions once again taking over the boy's features.

Charlie grasped the steal pipe with both his hands once again. "They're. Just. Like. The. Others. Fucking. WANKERS!" He grunted out harshly and punctuated each word by striking everything in reach with the pipe. He was gasping for his breath when he finished and frustrated tears had gathered in the boy's eyes.

Sherlock already had a good assumption of who the boy was referring too, but he asked anyway. He needed to get the boy talking. "Who're you talking about Charlie?" He advanced slowly towards Charlie with slightly outstretched arms in an open, non-threatening gesture.

"I'm talking about my fucking _family_!" Charlie spat the word as if it was poisonous and threw the pipe over the edge of the roof. It jangled loudly in the air as it finally hit the ground down below.

"They're getting rid of me.. Just like all the others have! It's just a matter of days before I have to shuffle all my shit back into a garbage bag and they kick me out so I can be another family's nuisance!" Charlie sprouted the words in a harsh angry voice, but the hurt and insecurity was brewing right under the surface. The teen had his fist clenched hard and he was now trying to glare a hole in the ground, looking anywhere but Sherlock or Dexter, probably realising that his true emotions would be easily visible if he looked up.

"I thought things were finally getting better with your new family Charlie. You told me last week you were finally feeling more at ease at home. That you were willing to start to make more of an effort to stay out of trouble so you could stay." Dexter chimed in, still standing right behind Sherlock.

"I HAVE been making a fucking effort! I haven't been in any fights at school, I've obeyed their stupid 10 pm curfew and I even did the dishes last night to try and be nice but they're STILL throwing me out, I know they are!" Charlie yelled finally facing them. A few tears had started to escape his eyes and rolled slowly down his freckled cheeks.

Sherlock took another small step towards the boy. His own chest constricting as he saw the boy's carefully constructed façade crumble, showing his true self. An insecure 14 year old who wished for little else than to be able to fit into a family, to feel wanted and loved, something he'd never had before at his other foster homes and certainly not from his biological family.

"What makes you think they're going to give up on you Charlie?" Sherlock asked softly, realizing it might be a sore subject for the young boy to approach, but he needed more information in order to help him.

Charlie kept wiping away his tears angrily with his hands, but to little avail as they just kept on coming now that he'd allowed the first ones to escape. "I heard them. They thought I was asleep, but I had snuck down in the kitchen to find a snack when I heard them talking in the livingroom. Maggie said 'maybe we should just tell him now' and Rob said 'we better wait until we have the papers and details settled so we know it'll be final, I have a meeting with his caseworker on Wednesday'. So there it is! They're arranging for my caseworker to find me another family, it's how it is every time!" Suddenly Charlie went completely still except for the tears still rolling now more freely down his face and slowly turned towards the edge of the roof, as if he'd had a sudden realization.

Sherlock froze on the spot, a cold dread sweeping through his body as he could already read what the teen was thinking of. "Charlie.." Sherlock spoke softly and very slowly reached out for the boy, as if he just concentrated hard enough, he could hold him back with telepathy.

No such luck because Charlie was leaping onto the edge of the roof with a lightning speed.

"Charlie no!"

"STOP!"

Sherlock and Dexter exclaimed loudly, both their hearts jumping to their throats.

Charlie didn't jump but stood right there on the edge and looked down on the street below. The wind ruffled his dark brown hair and he looked to be deep in thought.

"There's just no point anymore.." He muttered sadly, still looking down. "No one wants me.. All I ever do is cause misery and trouble. Maybe it'd be better if I just wasn't here anymore."

His voice held a hint of a certain acceptance that Sherlock didn't like one bit. "Charlie listen to me."

Charlie still looked down but still didn't make any move to jump right away so Sherlock continued in as calm a voice he could muster. "Whatever you're going through right now, how much you might believe what you're thinking of doing is the right decision.. It's not. This is not the answer."

Charlie didn't step down but turned halfway towards the detective with a cold stare. "How'd you know? You're a famous detective who got it all, a cool job, a nice place to call home and that twat to John Watson who loves you. I have no one.. No one wants me in their life. No one beliefs in me.. I'm always too intense, or aggressive or weird. No one will miss me if I'm gone anyway!"

Sherlock's heart broke just a bit more hearing such a speech coming from such a young boy. Maybe even more so because, not that long ago, he could have uttered almost the exact same statements and believed them to be true. Also he did not like the reminder this situation brought when he'd been the one standing on the edge of a rooftop and he knew from personal experience how much hurt and anguish it brought to the people around you to make a decision like this. No matter how unloved or un needed Charlie believed himself to be, he'd leave a hole behind for many people around him. The boy just hasn't realized that yet, so Sherlock felt the most important duty in his life this moment, is to make Charlie believe it.

"But I do know Charlie.. I really do.. I know every day you live is a struggle to get through. You don't think you'll ever deserve love or affection, because you know you're different than other children. Because you've had to face greater difficulties than any of your classmates. Children can be mean and merciless, they pick on you because they don't understand or can't relate to you. Of course you try to fight back, but deep down you believe them to be right about you, because it's what you've been told your entire life."

Charlie harsh mask slowly began to peel away as his small sobs began to fill the air and fat, fresh tears started to stream down the boy's face, but he still held his ground still not making any move to take the final step over the edge. Sherlock saw this as a good sign and very slowly approached a little further until he was right next to Charlie, but not touching him. He just kept talking;

"I know you believe that, but it isn't true. If you do this you'll leave behind a lot of people who'll miss you."

Charlie interrupted, his voice wobbly and tearful. "Oh yeah.. Who?"

"Well myself for one and Dexter too." Sherlock said in a matter of fact voice.

Dexter chimed in. "Yeah for real Charlie. Me and the rest of the gang." He said as he referred to the other members in the network. "You always have the best stories about your shenanigans, we never had much reason to laugh until you came along. And you always bring biscuits or treats you bought with your own allowance to give out to everyone when you meet us. You might be misunderstood by your classmates, but we know behind your tough front you're really the most generous and big hearted kid in the world. We'd all be devastated without you."

Charlie returned his gaze to the pavement down below, he didn't acknowledge Dexter's words verbally, but his tears had slowed a bit. Sherlock picked up once again;

"And John would miss you too. I know you don't like him much but he worries about you more than you think. He once told me you'd make a great soldier. He said you're the most courageous child he's ever met, having been through so much and still be able to hold your chin so high. He knows you're going to grow up and do great things in your life."

Charlie huffed a bit in dismay by the mention of John, but looked to be reflecting over this new information.

"And I'm sure your family are very worried about you right now. I'm sure whatever you heard tonight is explainable. You know, a good detective doesn't jump to conclusions without all the data." Sherlock defended coolly, hoping this could be the final straw to get the boy to retreat from the roof edge.

Charlie finally turned his head to look the detective in the eye. Gone were the tough exterior and left were only a sad, hurting and confused kid.

"I don't want to jump.." Was he said, his voice hollow and soft. "But I don't know if I can keep going. I don't want to go back into the system.." his young voice broke. "I just.. Want to belong _somewhere_."

Sherlock held out his hand, hoping for Charlie to take it. "I know Charlie.. So lets get you home, alright?"

Charlie hesitated for a few moments, but finally took Sherlock's hand and let himself be helped down from the ledge. Sherlock and Dexter both let out a silent sigh of relief. The detective immediately put his arm around the shoulder of the boy and held him close both to comfort Charlie who'd started shaking, but in some way also to comfort himself to make sure he really was safe as all three started to make their way down the stairs of the warehouse to catch a late night cab to deliver Charlie safely back to his foster parents.

Sherlock kept his arm around Charlie for the whole cab ride back to central London. Charlie didn't protest the gesture and even leaned against the detective in his rare vulnerable state. They dropped off Dexter near Hyde Park, but not before he'd reached over to Charlie and held gently on the back of the boy's neck as he whispered something into his ear. Sherlock could not make out the words but he didn't try to either, letting the boys have their moment. He knew Charlie had come to see Dexter as a sort of older brother and whatever he said made the young break into a soft smile and gave him a small nod as answer.

Finally they reached their destination, a small terraced house on Knightsbridge. Even though it was late, almost 1:30pm at night, all lights were still on inside. Sherlock paid the cabbie his fare and exited unto the pavement with Charlie ahead of him. Once the cab was gone Charlie and Sherlock stood still and looked towards the house. Charlie looked pensive and slightly scared and Sherlock watched the young boy, simply waiting for Charlie to gather himself enough to approach the house.

Charlie looked up into Sherlock's eyes. "What if they really don't want me to stay?" Charlie asked softly, his eyes big and glazed.

Sherlock squeezed his shoulder comfortingly. "I'm sure if you tell them how you feel and continue to make an effort to behave they'll never wan't you to leave Charlie." He answered and offered a reassuring smile.

"But.. What if they still don't..?" Charlie asked again, apparently still not willing to believe anyone would want to keep him in their life willingly.

Sherlock held Charlie's gaze and steadily answered. "Tell you what, if that really should be the case, I'll make sure that you can come and live with me and John."

Charlie let out a small grunt of protest. "As if. I'm not going to live with Dr. Twat Watson, thinking he's all that just because he's got a fancy diploma and knows how to boss people around professionally."

Sherlock couldn't help but laugh a little at Charlie's description of his lover. "Well I'm sure it's not going to come to that anyway so lets get go knock on the door shall we?"

Charlie rolled his shoulders and swallowed down the lump in his throat before nodding his acceptance. They both made their way up the walkway and Sherlock used the doorknocker three times to announce their presents.

There were a few moments of hurried scuffles on the other side before the door was practically ripped open by both Margareth and Robert Hadley. They hardly acknowledged Sherlock's presents as their eyes quickly fell on Charlie. Both immediately fell to their knees and embraced the boy into their arms, Mrs. Hadley sobbing in relief; "Oh gods Charlie my boy! We've been so worried about you! I went to check on you before bed and you were just gone! Never scare me like that again!"

Mr. Hadley broke the embrace and held Charlie at an arm's length looking the boy over up and down multiple times. "Are you alright? We've been out looking for you, we even called the police! They have a patrol out looking for you. We were so afraid something happened to you."

Charlie stood slightly speechless from all the sudden attention from his foster parents but answered non the less. "N-No.. I'm alright, really. I'm sorry I scared you.. I just.." He looked up to Sherlock who gave him a soft nod in encouragement to go on. "I ran away because.. I heard you talking downstairs. About finding me another family to live with.. And I was so sad because, I really like it here with you and I really want to stay, please?! I will try to do better in the feature just please don't send me back." Charlie pleaded, a few tears once again escaping his eyes as he spoke.

Both Mrs. And Mr. Hadley looked at each other confused before turning back to Charlie. "Sending you back? My poor boy what gave you that idea?" Mrs. Hadley asked.

"You know.. You said that you should just tell me and Rob said he needed to meet with my caseworker to work out the paperwork first.. You're planning to give me up because I've been to difficult to handle. Just like all the other times." Charlie explained sadly and looked to the ground.

Mr. Hadley however took a hold of Charlie's chin and lifted it up so he could look him in the eyes with a serious yet gentle look. "No Charlie of course we're not giving you up, never! On the contrary my boy." Mrs. Hadley cupped her hands around Charlie's face, stroking the thumbs gently across his tearsteaked cheeks as she continued; "We've been arranging for adoption papers Charlie. We want nothing more than for you to become a fully member of our family and Mrs. Clare, your caseworker, has been helping us to get things settled. We didn't want to tell you until everything was in order though." Mr. Hadley spoke again; "That is if you want to of course Charlie, but we'd love to have you as our son."

At those words Charlie broke altogether and threw himself into the arms of his parents while sobbing joyfully; "Yes! Yes I want that! Thank you, yes!"

Sherlock discreetly wiped a single tear from his chin as he witnessed the heartwarming scene before him. He'd never been more grateful to finally make a difference for the living for once in his life.

After a few more minutes of heartfelt crying Mrs. And Mr. Hadley both got up to thank Sherlock warmly for bringing their son safely back home to them. Sherlock accepted their thanks but also informed them that Dexter was the one who'd really been responsible for looking after Charlie and had brought their boy's need for help to his attention in the first place. The couple nodded and said they'd make sure to thank him plentifully when they'd see him again.

It was nearly 3pm in the morning before Sherlock finally made his way into bed next to John, who'd been sleeping blissfully through the whole nights' ordeal. The doctor however awoke slightly as his detective snuggled close and wrapped his tanned, strong arms around his lover. John yawned and spoke softly into soft, brown curls; "You've been up late, do I want to know what you've been doing to have kept me waiting for you so long?"

Sherlock wrapped his own arms tightly around his doctor and placed a small kiss under John's jaw. "Not now, I'll tell you about it in the morning." He answered faintly.

"Alright then, night Sherlock." John yawned tiredly and pulled Sherlock a bit closer to him.

"Goodnight John." Sherlock answered and settled himself comfortably against John's strong chest, his heart light with relief and happiness that Charlie had finally achieved some well deserved love and happiness in his new family as he'd found in John.

Charlie was back in bed at home. Mrs. Hadley had fallen asleep next to him in his bed, reluctant to let go of him after the scare he'd given them that night. She had her arm draped protectively across his body on top of his covers. Up until now he'd never have allowed for such acts of kindness, but he right now he didn't mind. He realized now he'd spent so many years in his past to protect himself from disappointment and hurt, that he'd never let anyone too close to his heart. But Mr. and Mrs. Hadley had treated him differently from the first day he'd been placed into their care. They were patient and loving, even when he'd lashed out. They'd been able to see past his exterior shell, even when he'd refused to acknowledge their act of love and kindness as genuine. Now that Sherlock had opened his eyes he could finally be honest with himself and accept what he'd refused to believe for so long. That he was worthy of love and the Hadleys, mom and dad he should probably get used to caaling them (he smiled at the thought), wanted him to be their legally son! For the first time in his life that he could remember he felt warm and loved and if it hadn't been for Sherlock Holmes, this night would have ended much differently and he'd never stop being grateful to the detective for saving his life to return home to _his familily_.


	6. Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock was surprised how much he'd started to actually enjoy these nights out with John, Lestrade and the by now semi regular participants from the Yards homicide division. Over the course of the last 6 months it'd evolved to be a bit of a tradition for them all to go out and celebrate whenever a though case got closed. Since Sherlock and John almost always got involved with the more demanding cases, they always ended up joining. In the beginning Sherlock had just went along with it because he knew John enjoyed going out, socializing and getting a few pints with the team and the detective knew the doctor always loved it when he'd join. Sherlock really just wanted to make John happy. But the more he went along the more he'd started to lean to enjoy the experience and he secretly loved how John would always get more outwardly affectionate after a few beers. He'd been used to people denying being associated with him for most of his life so who could blame him for liking that John actually wanted to flaunt him to the world as if to say _'That's right, he's with me. Sherlock Holmes is mine and I'm his. Though luck to you all for not having him in your arms.'_.

Tonight, they'd all settled into a new pup that'd recently opened in central London. It was slightly crowded but not unbearably so. Their group had gathered around a few round, high tables with highchairs to sit on. The lighting inside was soft, but bright enough that you didn't have to squint your eyes to see each other. The speakers only played old Irish folksongs, Sherlock enjoyed the violin and fiddle music in them and couldn't help but hush a bit on John and the others whenever a nice solo would play so that he could praise the musical qualities loudly. John would giggle each time and look at him with soft eyes and squeeze his hand lovingly where their intertwined hands lay on the table. The others would listen to his intermittent rants with a smirk on their faces, claiming that if Sherlock was still able to apply musical analysis on Irish folksong's violin solos he hadn't had enough to drink yet or they'd deliver some goodnatured teasing at John and Sherlock for acting like a teenage couple in love. John's answer to this would always be to lean in and scatter Sherlock's face with tiny kisses in humours provocation and Sherlock would pretend to be annoyed by it, usually ending in a round of laughter and a loud 'cheers!' to follow before they'd all return to the subject discussed beforehand.

Yes, this was shaping up to be a very nice evening indeed. Sherlock himself had already enjoyed a couple of drinks of his own and were starting to reach that pleasant buzz this accompanied. This probably also allowed himself to be more outgoing and less inhibited than he normally would be around others but John, but he really didn't mind that anymore as it would have in the past.

"And as I unpacked my gear back in basecamp I see this absolutely horrendously large caramel spider crawl out of my pack and I shriek so loudly in surprise that ever since that day all my comrades called me The Soprano." A loud eruption of laughter took over the tables as John told another of his many stories from his tours in Afghanistan.

Lestrade wiped a laugh induced tear from his eye. "Aw come on John, surely it wasn't so large it justified such a reaction."

"I swear to you Greg it was the seize of freaking Shelob from lord of the rings! You'd have shrieked to mate!" John justified intensely, which only resulted in another weave of laughter to overtake the crowd.

Sherlock was lost on whatever reference John was making and decided to go down to the bar and get John and him a refill, while the doctor kept on entertaining the masses. John was so enthralled in his own, slightly intoxicated epilogue that he didn't notice his detective slip off and Sherlock didn't want to disturb him. He already knew John would prefer another large Indian pale ale to drink so there was no need to ask.

Sherlock made his way down the wooden stairs, holding a hand onto the railing for good measure. Their seating area was located on a large balcony-like upper floor and underneath was a large, long bar with plenty of room to sit or lounge at for those who preferred or came in smaller groups. The music was a bit louder down here and the bar was a bit crowded and busy. Sherlock scanned the room and finally found a spot to take a waiting stance at the bar. He leaned casually across the counter until he gained eyecontact with one of the bartenders. He signalled for service by raising his right hand slightly and the bartender nodded in a silent gesture to let him know he'd been seen and he'd come to take his order when he was available. Sherlock nodded back in acceptance and lowered his hand back down.

He could feel the heat get to him down in this more crowed area of the pup. He'd left his blazer draped across the back of his chair upstairs, leaving him only in his crisp, white dress shirt, but still finding the air down here a bit to stifling for it to be comfortable. The top button of his shirt was already undone when he came in, but he undid another and then unbuttoned his shirt cuffs so he could roll up his sleeves up above both his elbows, leaving his pale forearms bare. It was then he noticed a tall, broad man with light brown hair, dressed in a plain black t-shirt and darkblue jeans who was seated on a barstool a little to his left watching him intensely, just as he'd finished with his last sleeve. The man offered him a crooked smile as Sherlock met his gaze and moved his chair a bit closer to the detective before he opened his mouth.

"Hi there, I.."

But Sherlock interrupted the man before he even got a chance to finish his introduction.

"No." He said curtly and turned his eyes away again and rested his elbows back on the bar with a bored expression as he settled to wait for service.

The man blinked confused as few times before he tried again.

"Excuse me?" He huffed out half with laughter and the other half in disbelief for being interrupted before he'd hardly started talking.

"Not interested." Sherlock said simply with a disinterested tone, not meeting the man's eyes but instead pulling up his phone from his trouser pocket to check his e-mail while he was waiting anyway, to kill time.

The man rolled his large shoulders, his bodylanguage indicating a sharp defensive at being called out like that, but his voice was calm and his crooked smile still in place as he talked again.

"What makes you think I was coming on to you? I just wanted to ask you the time." The man said smugly as he took a large sip from his Guinness, his eyes never leaving Sherlock though.

Sherlock turned his head back towards the goon, but only to fit him with a classic _'would you please stop being such an idiot'_ look his way.

"There's an old wall clock hanging right behind me, smack in the middle of your visual field. So unless you're severely nearsighted or right out blind you can't not know what time it is already. I do however know your eyes work perfectly well because your pupils have dilated approximately 30% since you started talking to me, more so than can be justified by the dimmed lighting, indicating you find me physically attractive. Your attempt to use psychology and provoke me into unconsciously fight to win back your approval by claiming you had no intention of flirting with me when you first approached me is dully noted, but as I just told you.. Not interested.." Sherlock shot off in a cold, deductive manner and then turned back to the screen on his phone.

The man sat back dumbfounded for a few moments, clearly processing the resounding rejection he'd just been thrown in his face. If Sherlock wasn't so annoyed by his presents, he'd have found it amusing. The man however didn't stay knocked down for long because he suddenly leaned in closer to the detective and leered with a husky voice.

"Wow, sexy _and_ clever! Must be my lucky night."

"Urghhh!" Exclaimed in frustration as he threw his head back dramatically and rolled his eyes in disbelief, dropping his phone on the bar as before turning back to the man with a glare in place.

"Seriously, what part of 'not interested' is it you don't understand?!" He asked annoyed. Relationally he knew he shouldn't humour the man anymore and just ignore him, but the few drinks he'd already had probably made him a bit more provocative than he normally would be.

The man's smirk widened. "I'm sorry love, but it's hard not to go for it you when you stand there and flaunt your stuff so temptingly." He said, giving the detective the escalator look up and down hungrily.

Sherlock supressed the impulse to wrap his arms around himself, as if to physically shield himself from the man's greedy eyes. He was just about to tell the tosser off for calling him 'love', only John was allowed to call him that. The bartender however chose this moment to show up asking for Sherlock's order. Eager to get away from the sleezy man he turned to give his order of drinks.

"One large, dark IPA and a double finger Green Spot whiskey on the rocks please."

The bartender turned and started to fill the order, leaving Sherlock to deal with a gorilla resembling man once again.

"I bet the whiskey is for you. You strike me as that kind of posh, pretty fellow who'd enjoy such an expensive, fancy drink, am I right?" The man asked, still smiling that eerie smile of his.

"I prefer quality over quantity." Sherlock answered coolly having given up on shutting the man up but still eyed him with a cold glare out of the corner of his eye. He probably wouldn't understand Sherlock's backhand insult, dumb as he was. It was clear he'd spent the better part of 5 minutes flexing his unnaturally large biceps in Sherlock's direction at every given opportunity, stretching the fabric of his formfitting black t-shirt tightly over his arms in some sort of misguided hope that it'd suddenly make the detective swoon in admiration and lust. Like it would work, Sherlock had his very own fit, muscular and much more attractively proportioned soldier, doctor boyfriend waiting for him upstairs. This fitness goon, who probably did nothing else but lift heavy weights while admiring himself in the mirror could never compare to his John, not on that front or any other for that matter.

The bartender finally placed both drinks in front of Sherlock and the detective fished up his wallet to pay. Just as the transaction had been made the idiot man reached forward his hand to reach for the mixed nuts bowl on the counter, but of bloody course he knocked over John's beer in the process, spilling it all over and soaking Sherlocks phone that still lay on the bartop.

"Bloody hell! You idiot!" Sherlock bellowed and quickly grasped his phone to save it from the pool of beer it was laying in. He quickly turned around to the other side on his right and fished a handful of napkins from a nearby table to dry off the worst of the ale before his phone would take permanent damage. It was almost brand new too! His old phone had been sacrificed on a case a few weeks earlier when it'd dropped out of his pocket to the pavement, as he and John had leaped over a fence in pursuit of a suspect. It was the newest model and he'd had finally gotten it set up perfectly to his liking. Sherlock dried it off as best as he could and turned on the screen, looking it over to see if it had suffered any damage at all and if it was still fully functional. It seemed like it had survived without any consequences, except having gotten a bit sticky.

"Oh shit I'm so sorry! Is it okay? It was an accident I swear!" The man uttered apologetically and reached over in offer to inspect the phone for damage himself.

Sherlock pulled it away from his reach angrily. "Fine, it's _fine_!" He answered exasperated and shoved his phone back into his pocket to protect it from further trauma in this moron's presents.

"Ah bugger! I spilled your beer too. Let me buy you a new one as an apology." The man then offered as he took a couple of the napkins Sherlock had gotten and started to dap away at the golden liquid from the bar.

"That's really not necessary." Sherlock grunted.

"No really, I'm serious. I'm sorry about before okay, I'll back off I promise. You're not interested, I get it. But I feel really bad, just let me make this up to you and then I swear I'll leave you alone." The man said in a solemn tone, his flirty smirk gone and a serious look in his eyes.

Sherlock was still fuming silently under the surface, but took comfort in the fact that the man at least finally seemed to have gotten the message into his thick head and the whole reason he'd ventured down here was to bring John and him a drink each. He didn't want John to think he hadn't taken him into consideration and just gotten a drink for himself. Sherlock took a deep breath and willed his still irate sate to simmer down before he accepted.

"Alright fine, but make it quick I haven't got all night." He said reluctantly.

The man smiled a more natural smile and quickly caught the bartender's eye again to return when he could to order a new beer.

"Thanks and sorry I was such an idiot. It's just, you're really beautiful and I just couldn't help myself." The man said sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment.

Sherlock was leaning back against the bar, his arms crossed on top on the counter, his whiskey waiting untouched in front of him. He still eyed the man with controlled contempt, but tried his best to act civil now that he at least seemed genuine apologetic for his actions.

"Just forget it. Just get me my beer so we can both get on with our night." The detective said, managing only to give away slight scorn in his voice.

"Sure thing, mate." The man said and then lifted his own still half full beer in salute. "And cheers." He followed up.

Sherlock sighed loudly but raised his glass non the less just to be polite. They clinked their glasses softly once and Sherlock took a large sip from his drink, feeling the need of blissful alcohol to soothe his patience after having to deal with this moron for the past 10 minutes. The amber liquid warmed him all the way down this throat and he let out a sigh, this time of delight, loving the smooth taste and slight burn the drink had to offer making him feel more at ease immediately.

"So, you never told me your name." The man said in some social dictated attempt to make small talk while they waited.

"I didn't." Sherlock simply replied and took another drag from his drink.

"I'm Christian." The man introduced and held out his hand in greeting.

Sherlock eyed the hand, having no intention in taking it, then returned his eyes to Christian.

"I don't care." Was all he said. There was a limit to his civilities. He had absolutely no interest in getting to know this man at all.

"Fair enough." Christian said with a shrug and pulled back his hand.

They stayed silent for a few minutes as they both nursed their drinks further. Sherlock however could feel himself growing a bit drowsy as the minutes passed. He shook his head a bit as to try and shake himself out of it, but to no avail. Odd, he'd slept through all night yesterday and his body had never claimed much sleep to function. He could usually go much longer than this before getting tired and it wasn't like he'd been drinking that much to justify the feeling.

"You alright mate? You look a little worn." Christian asked as he looked him over once again.

Sherlock cleared his throat and forced himself so stand straighter. "Yeah I'm fine." He said as convincingly as he could.

Christian looked across the bar fleetingly before turning back to the detective. "Looks like the bartender is out restocking so it might still take some minutes for your beer to arrive, here." He said and stood from his own seat to push it over to Sherlock. "Take a seat for a bit." He offered with a smile.

Sherlock would have protested but he would really like to sit for a minute as he had also started to feel a bit lightheaded. So, he took the offered seat without comment. Oh god, he just hoped he wasn't coming down with something, he hated being sick it always slowed down his transport so inconveniently much.

A few more minutes passed and Sherlock's lightheadedness only seemed to grow worse and worse. He took himself to the head with one hand and tried to take some deep breaths through his nose and out of his mouth.

"Yeah what can I get ya'" A new bartender suddenly asked and Sherlock's whipped his head back up to answer, but his mind was suddenly blank. What was it he was supposed to get John again? Why could he suddenly not remember such a simple thing?

"Ah yes I'd like a.. A.." He stumbled, shifting through his mind to try and remember. But something was wrong, very wrong. His mind was all sluggish and slow. Even with a few drinks in his system his mind should still be able to run with almost full capacity. What the hell was happening to him?!

Christian picked up on his difficulties. "Ah sorry about my mate here, he's had one too many I'm afraid. I'd like a dark IPA please." He answered in Sherlock's stead and placed one of his hands on the detective's shoulder, looking like nothing more than a good mate offering his support to his drunken friend. The bartender nodded and immediately filled a glass and placed it on the bar as Christian threw him a note and told tender to just keep the change.

Sherlock could feel a cold dread slowly spreading from the pit of his stomach. His inner alarm bells blinking and ringing loudly throughout his system, warning him to just get away from this man _now_! He was only now starting to recognize some of the symptoms for what they really were, it had just been so long since he'd last experienced them that by now it was too late for him to react in time. Christian must've drugged his drink when he'd turned away for a few moments to get napkins to dry off his wet phone. He'd knocked over John's beer on purpose, this had been his plan all along!

Sherlock tried to stand up, tried to get away but his body didn't feel like his own and he stumbled the second he got to his feet.

"Woah buddy!" Christian exclaimed and caught the detective easily in his huge arms. "I think you'd had enough for one night, we better get you home don't you think?"

Sherlock tried to protest and wiggle free, but Christian's hold was way too strong for him to break and his voice wasn't carrying as his entire being succumbed further and further to the effects of the drugs.

"No.. Noooo.. Jh.. Jawn.." Sherlock called out futilely for John to please come help him, please save him from this vile man before could fulfil his no doubt horrendous intentions.

"I know you don't wanna go home mate but enough is enough. See, you've even lost your bloody jacket somewhere. Let's see if we can't find a cap for you." Christian announced to the room and managed to pull his own jacket on while still keeping a firm grip on Sherlock, making it impossible to escape even if he could. He then wrapped one of Sherlock's arms around his broad shoulders and half carried the detective towards the exit. Sherlock could do nothing more than moan soft complaints, but even in his drugged induced haze he knew it was no use. From every onlookers' point of view, it looked like Christian was the noble, responsible friend helping his way too drunk mate home from the pup. No one would be coming to help him now…

Charlie was hurrying home. He knew he'd stayed out too long past his curfew and he felt bad, but he and some mates had gotten into an intense soccer game and he couldn't leave until they'd settled the score! He'd honestly not realized how late it'd gotten when they'd finally finished the game and he didn't have a phone to call home and tell them he was late. His parents would surely scold him when he got home, but as long as his reason to be late was because he'd had fun with friends at a soccer game and not because he'd been out making trouble, he knew they'd forgive him quickly enough. He did however decide to take a few shortcuts along the way through some dark alleyways to save time. Dexter had taught him all the safe routes in the city and showed him which parts to stay clear from, so he didn't feel unsafe making his way through the dark pathways.

But as he was making his way through one of the darkest alleys on his route, he heard scuffle and commotion coming further down and quickly jumped behind a dumpster to hide. He could hear two male voices echoing against the walls, one was slightly more distinct and the other sounded slightly muffled and weak. Maybe two homeless who'd gotten into a fight over a squat spot? He knew he should probably just hurry to make his way out into the lighted main street and get moving onwards home, but.. He was kind of curious. Maybe it was someone he'd know from the homeless network, if so he'd feel bad if he didn't step in to help.

Very slowly and silently he peaked out from behind his hiding place and snuck his way along one of the walls. It was dark but his eyes had adjusted pretty well to the gloom. As the sounds grew louder he saw a freakishly tall man, who was half carrying half dragging another man, who was much more slender and dressed only in dress pants and a white shirt, almost as far down the ally as they could get.

The giant man was huffing slightly with the effort. "Damn, for such a skinny bloke you sure are heavy."

The other man's head was rolling back in forth like he was very drunk while he was manhandled forward. Sluggish protests continually escaping him, though he could not form any form of coherent sentence. "Noo.. Mmm.. Wha.. Let go.. Jo.."

They didn't look like homeless people the way they were dressed and while they weren't fighting Charlie still got a chill down his spine. His instincts telling him something was very wrong.

Suddenly a window a few stories up had its' lights turn on, casting a very soft shine into the darkness, allowing Charlie to see the two men a bit more clearly. He had to supress a cry of surprise when he immediately recognized the slender figure as Sherlock. He'd no idea who the other tall bloke was, but he sure as hell knew it wasn't Sherlock's boyfriend John Watson. So, when the tall goon buried his nose deeply into Sherlock's pale neck and inhaled deeply and said;,

"Oh yeah baby, you smell so delicious and I bet that plump ass of yours is just as delicious as the rest of you. I can hardly wait."

Sherlock's protest end efforts to wiggle free from the man doubled for a few seconds at those words, but he was quickly subdued by a rough shake from the tall man.

"Easy there! Wouldn't want to mess up that pretty face of yours love. I promise if you behave, I'll make it good for you as well." The man growled.

Charlie immediately knew this was very, very, _very_ bad! It looked like Sherlock couldn't even walk on his own. He'd never seen the detective this messed up. In his young life he'd seen several different stages and ways of drunkenness in lots of people, but this seemed different than that. No matter what the cause of the detective's odd condition was he knew he had to help somehow! There was no way he could overpower that brunt of a giant carrying him, he wasn't delusional, so he had no other choice than to quickly sneak back out into the street and find help before it'd be too late!

Charlie retreated as silently and quickly as he could out of the alley. The minute he was out on the street he sprinted off to try any find someone who could come and help!

"Hey, where did Sherlock go? I haven't seen him in a while." John asked out loud and turned around, visually scanning the room for his tall boyfriend.

Lestrade finished a large drag from his beer before answering. "Maybe he went to the loo?" He suggested.

John's lips thinned as he continued to look around the room. "Nah, I don't think so. I think he's been away longer than that." He said, feeling a little guilty that he hadn't actually registered how long Sherlock had been gone in his rather tipsy state, only that it'd been a fair amount of time by now.

"He's probably sneaked outside for a smoke, hoping you wouldn't notice John. I think I'll join him. I'll bring him back up with me alright." Sally chimed and stood up to pull on her coat and fished out her pack of cigarettes.

John groaned. "Ah, you're probably right Sally. Alright cheers and remember to give him a slap on the wrist from me, he knows I hate how he taste after he's been smoking." The doctor said, still not happy about Sherlock's seemingly inability to quit the smokes completely, but he supposed it was preferable the git now only smoked when he'd had a couple of drinks and not on an everyday basis anymore.

Sally also only ever smoked when drinking and the last couple of times she'd joined the rest of the division for drinks after hours, Sherlock and she would often keep each other company outside while enjoying their shared guilty pleasure. She'd actually begun to enjoy their little smoke affiliated talks. Ever since Sherlock had saved her from her claustrophobic panic attack a few months ago and she later found out to what extremes he'd gone to make sure the guilty party would never pull such a stunt on her again (John had told her), the sergeant and detective's bond had been growing stronger day by day. Now that they weren't busy being at each other's throat all the time Sherlock had finally acknowledged that he did consider her above average intelligence and that he did find her work both competent and proficient. She on the other hand had admitted to how jealous she'd always felt of Sherlock's ability to read a crimescene like an open book and how he could notice the smallest of details and make connections where other couldn't, out of seemingly nothing. So now, when they both adjoined for a smoke Sherlock would deduce people or scenery outside and then tutor her in his deductive method. She'd leaned more from Sherlock Holmes in crimescene analysis than she'd leaned after years in the academy and she had become a much better cop for it.

Sally stepped out to the onto the small area outside indicated for smokers. Her brow winkled in confusion when she didn't see Sherlock out here as expected. There were only one couple a few of feet away, passing a fag back and forth between them. She lit up her own cigarette and blew out the smoke while she looked around. Could he have gone home already? She doubted it, the detective wouldn't just leave without telling John first. She continued her speculations, pulsing on her cigarette when suddenly her attention was caught by a young boy, turning the street corner in a sprint hollering loudly in his wake.

"Help! Someone help! He's gonna hurt him, someone's gotta help me please!"

Most of the night's pedestrians ignored the young boy or told him to scram as he passed them, either too drunk to care or suspecting what he was doing was a sly try at a trick thieving. Sally couldn't explain why she reacted as she did, but she quickly reached out and caught the boy's arm before he could run past her. Her mind was telling her he was probably just a streetwise kid out making trouble and to just ignore him, but her gut told her she needed to at least hear what the lad had to say before letting him run off again. The boy stumbled slightly backwards when he was suddenly forced to make an abrupt stop, but quickly regained his bearings looking up with scared, yet determined eyes at the sergeant.

"Please help! I need to call the police! Do you have a phone I can borrow? It's an emergency!" The boy panted, out of breath from running so hard.

"I am the police kid, now tell me what the hell is going on? A boy like you shouldn't be running around making trouble this late at night." Sally said firmly, still keeping a hold on the boy just to make sure he wouldn't just run off again.

"I am NOT out making trouble! I just saw my friend getting dragged by a huge man into an alley a few blocks away and I'm afraid he's gonna hurt him! We need to go help him NOW!" The boy practically begged.

Sally fitted the boy with a steady gaze. She could tell by now he wasn't acting and if some creep was out there kidnapping or God forbid molesting children, she was going to do something about it!

"Okay, calm down alright. I'm going to help you. How old is your friend? What does he look like? Do you know why he'd go with the man you think is going to hurt him, do they know each other?" She asked, needing more details in order to help.

The boy looked frustrated. "I don't know how bloody old he is! 30ish I guess?! He's tall and skinny and have dark brown curly hair! I don't think he knows the other man because he was fighting to get away from him, but couldn't. He could hardly talk and he couldn't walk by himself, it was kindda like he was super drunk or like.. Really stoned out.." The boy paused in his rant, his complexion taking on a greyish note as he continued. "And the man was saying some really fucked up stuff about him having a nice ass and.. That he'd make it good for him too if he behaved.."

Sally's stomach had twisted into a tighter and tighter knot as the boy talked, a horrible dread settling in the pit of her gut. She tried to keep her voice as steady as she asked her next question.

"What is your friend's name?"

"His name is Sherlock Holmes! And if we don't hurry that giant man is gonna get away now PLEASE! Call some of your police friends and follow me, before he hurts him!" The boy begged once again, already moving to drag Sally along with him to the scene.

Sally supressed her rising panic, now was not the time. She grasped both of the boy's shoulders firmly. "Wait right here! Don't you move okay?! I'm going inside to get some help I'll be right back!" She reprimanded sharply. The boy nodded his understanding and she wasted no time hurrying back inside to get backup.

Sherlock tried to keep it together but everything was swimming before him.. His vision kept going in and out of focus and he was so horrible dizzy.. The earth was shaking, or was it just himself? It was impossible to tell.. He felt a hot, disgustingly wet trail going all the way up the side of his neck. He tried to pull away from it, but the wetness followed. When it finally left his neck however, it thrusted forcefully into his slack mouth and proceeded into a onesided wrestling match with his tongue. He almost vomited from the feeling... He blearily registered a bruising force, that was holding him up against a cold, rough surface behind him.. When the wiggling wetness left his mouth, his head fell to the side and he actually did vomit a small bit. Suddenly a frightfully brute force connected with his left cheek, whipping his head to the other side. Now the whole left side of his face was burning and his ears were ringing, his dizziness even worse than before if that was possible..

"Don't be disgusting." A far away voice floated through the air somewhere in front of him.

A harsh chill overtook him as he distantly heard something being ripped apart, making it harder to breath for a few seconds.. The repulsing wetness now latched onto his cold chest, sucking and licking.. He once again tried futilely to push back against the firm weight that was holding him in place, but he didn't think his efforts were even noticed, let alone working..

Suddenly there was movement further down his body and new kind of chill shot up through his spine as felt something huge and cold reach downwards, past his now undone belt and pants to fondle him roughly through his boxers.. Though his mind felt like it was shortcircuiting and his body felt foreign and disconnected Sherlock just knew he had to get away from this onslaught or die trying.. He gathered all his strength and willpower and willed it all to fight off the abusive touches..

"Oof.. Off.. Get away from me.." He forced out as loudly as he could, but just barely managing a whisper pushing and swatting away at the figure before him.

"My, my.. You're a feisty one aren't you darling? That's okay though, I like it a bit rough anyway." The dark voice snickered from his blurred, faceless assailant.

And with that Sherlock found himself being turned around and slammed right back into the cold, jagged stonework so fast it made the whole world tilt of its axis and his forehead bounce painfully off the it's surface, even as he tried to catch himself with his arms sprawled against the cold exterior.

A large hand pressed hard between his shoulderblades, pinning him firmly in place as another hand started to drag his pants further down his backside.. He could feel himself hyperventilating. Even in his half delusional, helpless state Sherlock's mind and body still knew what was coming next and there was nothing he could do to stop it..

Just as he lowered his head in acceptance, his eyes pinched shut tightly in a desperate attempt to disconnect from his body, an outright roar echoed loudly in the narrow space.

"OI! LET GO OF HIM!"

The sound of sprinting footsteps was heard and the punishing pressure against the detective's back eased for a brief moment as the faceless attacker was caught by surprise. Then suddenly the pressure disappeared altogether and the sound of two bodies colliding with high speed and force resounded in the darkness followed by a pained grunt, presumably coming from the attacker as he was brutally tackled to the ground.

With the pressure gone however, nothing was keeping Sherlock upright anymore and the detective slumped ungracefully to the ground with a thud.

John was seeing red. Sally had returned back upstairs from her smoking break in a frenzy, ranting about a young kid outside who'd told her Sherlock was in trouble. She'd hardly made any sense as she babbled urgently that they all had to go immediately. Lestrade had to calm her down and ask her to start over before they fully understood the situation. John was on his feet, knocking his chair over in the process and out the door before Sally even finished. He didn't even grasp his coat before storming out. When he reached the outside he immediately recognized Charlie, who was still standing out front. The boy had a panicked air about him but looked relieved to see John for once.

"Show me where he is!" Was all John said, his heart already hammering in his chest. White hot anger blooming throughout him at the thought of someone out there hurting his Sherlock.

Charlie simply nodded and sprinted off in the direction he'd come from, John right on his heels. Only one thing playing in the doctor's mind. _'Sherlock..'_

"It's right up there, in the alley on the left!" Charlie called after a few minutes of running, pointing to place ahead, still running.

John wasted no time in sprinting past the young boy. He almost fell as he skidded slightly making the sharp turn into the dark alleyway. It didn't take long as he ran down the narrow pathway that he could start to make out two figures at the end, huddled close against the wall. He slid to an abrupt halt, his breaths coming out in harsh puffs from running so hard. He squinted his eyes and ears as to try and make out what was going on in the darkness, willing his eyes to adjust to the gloom.

His blood froze in his veins as he not only recognized his boyfriend, looking dazed, limp and confused, but also distraught and trying to offer what little fight he was capable of in his current state as a huge man stuck his hand down the front of the detective pants. The man mumbled something John couldn't make out before he saw him turn Sherlock roughly around, slamming him face first back against the wall before beginning to pull down his pants further with an excited sneer.

At this sight John's blood went from freezing to boiling in a second and he let out a thunderous roar of anger;

"OI! LET GO OF HIM!" Before he sprinted the rest of the way down the alley. He jumped with all his might, thankful for his many years playing rugby, as he tackled the giant bastard to the ground. John quickly gained the upper hand in their scuffle, having the advantage as the man had been surprised by his attack. He managed to plant one knee firmly on the man's sternum as he landed punch after punch on his face as hard and fast as he could.

"Don't. You. Fucking. Touch. Him. You. BASTARD!" John roared after each punch. The man tried to pry him off desperately, grunting in pain as each punch landed, but John had him trapped helplessly under him.

The man's face was covered in blood and John's knuckles were starting to bruise and bleed of their own, but he didn't register it. He was burning up with anger! At this moment he wasn't doctor Watson anymore, right now he was captain John Watson, trained killer and soldier, he was the lover of Sherlock Holmes and he wanted this man to suffer, hell.. He wanted him dead!

But before he could go on Lestrade caught John's arm in mid strike to stop him. Even though the DI was no small man himself he had to hold on with both his hands to stop John's momentum.

John turned with the intention of telling Lestrade off for stopping him, but as he saw the look on the DI's face, he didn't doubt the other's intentions. "I'm on him John. Go to Sherlock he needs you." The DI said his own eyes an inferno of rage never leaving the man under John, that was now moaning lowly in pain.

At the mention of Sherlock John immediately jumped off the man and scrambled to get to his lover who was laying a few feet away. Lestrade immediately took over John's place and planted his own firm knee on the attacker's chest making him moan out further in discomfort, but not earning any mercy from the DI. Sally had arrived too and had made her way directly to Sherlock and was currently supporting the detective's head while she tried to get in contact by calling his name out, asking if he could hear her. She immediately gave up her spot for John when the doctor came running. John cradled Sherlock's head gently and called out himself.

"Sherlock? Sherlock love, it's me John. Can you hear me?"

Sherlock was clearly trying to fight off a thick drug haze. The detective was conscious, but only partial responsive. His eyes were going in and out of focus, his blinks were slow and sluggish as was his whole demeanour overall. While Sally's voice hadn't brought on much of a reaction John's voice however seemed to break through in some way.

"Jh.. Jawn..?" The detective managed to rasp out, his eyes trying to hold steady on John's face above him.

"Yeah Sherlock! It's me I'm right here love! It's okay, it's okay. You're safe now." John answered. He looked over the form of his lover and took in his ripped shirt, bite marks and hickeys down the side of his pale neck and chest and his black pants that were still hanging down past his hips. John had to supress the once again rising fury and urge to go back to the man and finish what he started as he realised what would have happened if he'd been only a few minutes later.

He should've been there. He should've prevented this all together, why hadn't he noticed Sherlock missing from his side immediately? Could he ever forgive himself for letting this happen? All these thoughts raced through the doctor's mind as he quickly stripped off his own jacket and draped it across Sherlock's thin frame to shield him from the cold and once again hiding his alabaster skin from the view of the filth laying behind them. "Oh God, Sherlock what did he do to you?" John whispered sadly as he pulled his detective closer to him.

Despite his condition Sherlock had enough wit about him to understand John's worried whisper and suddenly grasped the doctor tight to him. While he struggled slightly to form the words the desperation and slight panic underneath was plain to hear. "I..I'm sorry John.. I di.. Didn't want.. Didn't mean to.. I'm not high.. He made me.. Drugged me.. I'm so s-sorry.. I love you... Please, believe me.." Sherlock all but begged as he looked up at John with big pleading eyes, pupils blown wide from the drug he'd been slipped.

John had to swallow the lump in his throat at hearing Sherlock's desperate please. In his drugged out state fearing John would misunderstand the situation and think Sherlock had gotten high on his own and then snuck off with this man willingly.

"No, no Sherlock love, I know! I'm the one who's sorry! Shhh, don't apologize." John tried to comfort as best as he could.

Besides them Lestrade growled dangerously and very roughly grasped the collar of the attacker's jacket to heave him up a bit only to slam him back into the ground. "You bastard! What the hell did you slip him?" He yelled angrily into his face.

The man cried out as he was roughhoused, but did not offer anything up.

Lestrade repeated the action, harder this time. "ANSWER ME! What did you slip him?!" The DI roared this time.

"Greg!" Sally called out in slight horror. "You're a police officer, you can't handle a suspect like this!"

Lestrade just growled; "Right now I'm not a fucking cop, right now I'm a fucking angry bloke who wants to make this filthy scum tell me what the hell he's drugged my friend with! So.."

Lestrade repeated the action a third time, making the lowlife let out a pathetic sob as he cried. "GHB! It was GHB, alright!"

"How much?!" Lestrade barked.

"2 ml! Only 2 I swear!" The man cried out, afraid of more hits coming his way.

"Fucking hell!" John swore loudly and reached to take his lover's pulse. It was there, but slightly irregular and Sherlock's eyes were starting to lose focus again, his blinks becoming longer and longer, clearly starting to slowly lose consciousness.

"Sherlock, stay with me! Stay awake love!" John called and rubbed lightly on the younger man's sternum in an effort to keep him conscious. It was no use and only seconds later the detective lost himself do the darkness.

"Would somebody please call a bloody ambulance already?!" John called out loudly, now holding on to the limp form of Sherlock Holmes in his arms.

"I already did Mr. Watson." Charlie spoke up from behind them all. The boy had kept his distance to not get in the way. "I nicked Miss. Donovan's phone earlier to make the call when I thought she was just going to hold me up to call for help. Sorry." He said and offered Sally her phone back. "But it's on its' way, I promise." Just as Charlie finished his sentence, sirens could be heard in the distance. "Good lad Charlie." John praised before turning back to Sherlock, keeping track of his vitals until the paramedics would arrive.

Sally used her reacquired phone to call another ambulance and a on duty police patrol to the scene to take care of the attacker, still laying on the ground with her boss solidly planted un top of him, until backup would arrive. As John waited he found himself stroking a his hand gently down one pale, sharp cheekbone. "I'm so sorry Sherlock, I promise I'll never let anything happen to you again love." He promised in a whisper.

Sherlock awoke with a splitting heading, dry tongue and a cloudlike haze in his head. When he finally succeeded in getting his eyes all the way open it was to the pleasant sight of John Watson sitting on the edge of his, he now realised it to be, hospital bed. John was looking at him with a mixture of worry, sadness and relief.

"Hey love." John whispered gently and took a soft hold on Sherlock's lax hand that wasn't occupied with an IV fluid bag.

"Hey.." Sherlock rasped back only to succumb to a small coughing fit as his throat protested the action.

John immediately produced a cup of water with a straw and placed it to Sherlock's mouth to drink from. Sherlock took a few grateful sips before he relaxed back into the soft mattress. The upper portion of his bed was slightly elevated, so he could return his half-lidded gaze to his doctor, still watching him intently, like John didn't even dare take his eyes off him for a minute.

"How are you feeling?" John asked as he took a hold of Sherlock's hand again as soon as he could.

Sherlock sighed heavily, closed his eyes and gave himself a few seconds to mentally go over his body's current state before answering. "My head hurts.. I feel dizzy, it feels like the room is spinning.. A bit sore.. I'm really nauseated and.. my troath hurts and feels raw." He answered, still with his eyes closed. He opened them again quickly as the dizziness felt less severe when he had a focal point, he chose John to be that focal point. "What happened?" He then asked softly, his voice still low and a bit puzzled.

"You don't remember?" John asked, but the way his voice carried it didn't sound like a question, it sounded more like a statement. Like the he wasn't at all surprised that Sherlock had no recollection of what had landed him in a hospital bed with a bad headache and all his other current symptoms. John's lips tightened into a thin line and his eyes grew large with a stronger mix of sadness and guilt?

Sherlock grew a bit worried of his own at his lover's sudden sorrow and silence. "What? Have we been on a case? Did I do something not good?" Sherlock asked hurriedly, afraid he might once again have done something to upset John.

But John quickly shook his head fiercely at Sherlock's suggestions and moved his other hand to cup Sherlock's face gently. "No! No Sherlock. You didn't do anything wrong love." John said, his voice low but insistent.

Sherlock was getting more confused by the minute and his usual ability to process data had been severely reduced by his current state, so he was unable to deduce the situation. "Then what? What are you so upset then?" Sherlock asked worriedly.

John took a deep breath, obviously mentally stealing himself for something he found uncomfortable, but necessary to get off his chest. "You were drugged Sherlock."

Sherlock could feel his heart drop to his stomach. Had he been using? Then why wasn't John mad at him? How could he say he didn't do anything wrong? He couldn't imagine any scenario or case that would justify he'd start doing cocaine again, but apparently he'd found one, even if he was unable to remember it. But it would explain his current position and symptoms. He'd probably been close to overdose and that's why he couldn't remember anything and why his throat hurt. He'd had his stomach pumped! It'd been so long since he'd been in this situation, but now he recognised it for what it was.

"Drugged?! But no I'm.. I'm clean! I swear John I've been clean!" Sherlock exclaimed loudly and sat further up in the bed. Bad idea, because he immediately fell into another, harsher coughing fit that wrecked his whole frame and provoked his headache even more.

John immediately moved to support the detective's upper body and rubbed his back soothingly as the coughing got to run its course. All the while John tried to calm Sherlock down by muttering comfort directly into his ear. "I know Sherlock, I know! Take it easy love. It wasn't your fault, you didn't do it yourself."

"But.. Then who did?" Sherlock asked when finally calmed down and was laid back against his pillow after a few minutes, his voice like sandpaper.

Now John eyes turned to anger, but clearly not anger directed at Sherlock, cause his gaze turned distant as he answered. "We were out with Lestrade and the rest of the yarders for drinks. When you went downstairs to get drinks some bastard slipped a high dose of GHB into your scotch and managed to manhandle you out of the bar to an alley a few blocks away. Luckily Charlie saw the two of you and knew something was very off and he managed to run away to alert Sally to the situation back at the bar. But he.. He almost.. If I'd gotten there just a minute later.." At the end John's angry look crumbled back into grief and guilt and unable to finish his sentence.

Suddenly Sherlock's mind was flooded with uncoherent images and sensations from the night's events. It was like a floodgate had opened in his head. Now he remembered being in the bar with John, Greg, Sally and other yarders and he remembered going downstairs to get John and him another round. He remembered 'the man', although his face was a fuzzy blur in his memory. He remembered the moment he realised himself he'd been slipped something in his drink. But after that everything seemed like a blurry mess. Like remembering a dream right after waking up, not being able to recall the details. He could vaguely remember being half carried off somewhere, not having any idea how much time and distance had been covered when a vile sensation of a wet tongue being plunged into his mouth, his shirt being ripped open, the wetness trailing down his chest, his pants being pulled down.. The feeling of helplessness and dread of what he'd known would had been coming next. Sherlock pulled at the collar of his hospital gown and looked franticly down his pale chest. It was littered with bitemarks and hickeys. He was starting to hyperventilate slightly, but managed to rasp out. "I'm gonna be sick.."

John managed to get a sick tray in front of Sherlock just in time as the detective vomited what little he had left to offer of his stomach contents.

As he reemerged from his heaving the images continued. Because he also remembered the distinct voice of John, yelling in fury followed by a scuffle which he didn't see but heard most of. The last thing he remembered was being secure in John's arms and then.. Nothing..

The detective turned back to John. "He.. He didn't.. Did he?" Sherlock could not get himself to voice the full question, but he knew John would understand. He did not feel any pain in.. That area and he couldn't recall the act happening, but he couldn't trust his own memory at this point, and he needed to be sure.

"No!" John exclaimed loudly and winched slightly at his own volume in the small hospital room (luckily Mycroft had secured a private room, the other Holmes brother was quite handy to know from time to time). "No." John repeated softer this time and squeezed Sherlock's hand between his own two, letting his thumbs rub across the back of it soothingly.

Sherlock felt an immense relief wash over him and even managed a soft smile at his doctor. "You got to me in time then." He simply declared.

John's heart almost broke at Sherlock's soft, praising voice. "I wouldn't put it like that.." John sighed and dropped his gaze, not able to accept the soft look his lover was offering him.

Sherlock's eyes then turned to determination and he squeezed John's hands back to get the doctor's attention yet again. "Please tell me everything that happened last night."

John eyed Sherlock for a few seconds, debating whether he should give in to the detectives request or not. He however nodded in acceptance, Sherlock deserved to know what had happened and began from the beginning of their evening…

Sherlock was released from the hospital in the evening into the care of John and with the promise he'd take it easy for a few days. Besides feeling a bit weak and faint from the whole ordeal he felt surprisingly okay. John had told him everything.. About how Charlie had handled the situation brilliantly when he'd first spotted Sherlock in the arms of that vile man and manged to get to Sally and the others in time to come to his aid. If it hadn't been for that young boy Sherlock wouldn't even dare to imagine what would have happened. He'd make sure to visit the boy some time in the next couple of days to thank him probably.

Just as John had settled Sherlock onto the couch with a steaming hot cup of tea there was a knock on the door. Before John went to answer it the door swung slightly open and Mrs. Hudson peeked inside.

"Woo hoo.. Sorry to disturb you boys I know you just got home, but that nice detective inspector and a young sweet girl are here asking for you Sherlock, should I let them up or?" The landlady asked gently, clearly not wanting to intrude if Sherlock wasn't up for having visitors right away.

Sherlock offered her a forgiving smile. "That's quite alright Mrs. Hudson they can come up. Why don't you join us too? John just made tea." Sherlock offered. It was clear Mrs. Hudson was awfully distressed by the news of Sherlock's hospitalization and the cause of it. When they'd entered 221 she'd come out to greet them as usual, trying to maintain her usual cheerfulness and suppressing her urge to fuss over Sherlock like a mother hen, afraid it'd be unwelcome.

Mrs. Hudson beamed at the offer. "Oh, that sounds lovely dear, I'll be right back with the others."

John smiled at Sherlock as their landlady disappeared down the stairs, Sherlock tried so hard usually to keep up a a mask of indifference, but Mrs. Hudson had always had a soft spot in the detective's heart. John was happy to see that the longer he'd gotten to know Sherlock the detective had slowly but surely been able to open more up to the people around him. Finally accepting that he finally had friends that accepted him for who he was and not just pretending or manipulating him for their own benefit, just to throw him out of their lives again once they'd gotten what they wanted from him.

A minute later Mrs. Hudson came back up with Lestrade and Molly following right behind her, both offering a small smile and weave in greeting as they entered.

Lestrade took a seat in Sherlock's leather chair. Sherlock motioned for Mrs. Hudson to come sit by his side on the couch and Molly sat down beside the landlady. John quickly handed out hot cups of tea to all the new arrivals before taking his own seat in his armchair.

"Good to see you Sherlock. Feeling alright?" Lestrade asked as he eyed the younger man as he took the first sip of his tea.

Sherlock nodded. "I am now." He answered before he fitted the DI with a serious look. "And I want to thank you. John told me what you did, in that alley. You made him confess to his actions and what he'd drugged me with. It might have saved my life." He said, his voice sincere and grateful.

Lestrade smiled a tight smile. "I don't know about that. All I know is.. I really just wanted to kill that guy when I saw what he'd done to you."

"Same mate!" John offered in agreement from his own seat.

Lestrade couldn't supress a small huff and shook his head as he continued. "Yeah I.. I wasn't allowed to join the interrogation because they were afraid I might jump on him again. Smart choice actually, I probably would have. Sally have taken over the case fully, she witnessed most of the ordeal so she's going to make sure that bastard isn't getting out for a long time."

Sherlock's eyes frowned in confusion. "But.. That's way out of her division. Why would she do that?" He asked.

"She insisted on it, wouldn't take no for an answer. While I wasn't allowed inside myself, I watched her interrogate the him, man you should have seen her! She practically had the big guy sobbing out his confession at the end." Lestrade informed, noticeably recalling the event with glee. "She told me to wish you well by the way."

Sherlock swallowed a few times, processing all this information. "That's.. Good. Tell her thanks from me next time you see her." He said, trying and suspecting failing, at hiding how moved he felt by both the DI's and sergeant's actions.

Mrs. Hudson wrapped an arm around Sherlock's own and the detective unconsciously leaned into the comforting touch.

"Sherlock, I brought you something. I hope that's okay." Molly spoke up next and produced a small bottle from her purse and handed it over to Sherlock.

Sherlock accepted it and looked it over curiously. "You brought me.. Nailpolish? Ehrm.. Thanks Molly, but I'm.. I'm not sure it's something for me." Sherlock offered.

Molly Chuckled. "No, well yes it _is_ nailpolish. It's something I've been working on for some time, outside work. It's a clear polish you can put on one of your nails, it changes into a light blue colour if it gets in contact with a wide variety of commonly used drugs for spiking drinks. If you're ever in doubt someone put something in your drink or have left it unattended, you can just discreetly stir your drink with your finger and if it's spiked the polish will react and change colour in a span of 30 seconds."

"Holy shit really? Molly that amazing!" John exclaimed in awe.

Molly fiddled with her fingers shyly. "Well, it's actually Sherlock who gave me inspiration to create it. That case you guys were on a few months ago, Sherlock asked me if I'd help test the bottom of your victims wineglass for potential poisons or drugs and when it was positive I thought to myself, if only there was a way she could have known her drink had been poisoned she might still have been alive." She looked back to Sherlock with sympathy. "I'm so sorry this happened to you Sherlock, but I hope this will prevent it from ever happening again. No one should have to feel unsafe when being out and experience what you and so many others have been through. It's still only a prototype, but all my tests have been positive so far so it should be reliable to use."

Sherlock was completely awestruck. "Molly, this is amazing!" He exclaimed. "You have to tell me your process. Do you need any help with the final developments? This needs to be produced to the whole population! It's absolutely genius!" Sherlock was amazed. Such an invention wouldn't just help him, but so many others. He felt honoured Molly had been inspired by him to create such a great product and he wanted to help get it on the public market as fast as possible. This would definitely make him feel a lot safer when going out again. He was sure he'd never spend a day not wearing the polish, this would be so helpful in so many ways!

Molly blushed a bit by the rare overflow of praise coming from the detective. "Oh, yeah. I'd like that very much." She smiled a bit.

"Oh, I wish I could get my own hands on that twat who did this to my boy!" Mrs. Hudson interrupted and gripped his arms tighter around Sherlock's in a protective way. "Detective inspector is there no way he can get him the electric chair?" She asked seriously.

"Afraid not ma'am." Lestrade answered, actually sounding disappointed himself.

"Maybe I should ask that brother of yours Sherlock, I'm sure he'd be able to pull some strings." Mrs. Hudson plotted on.

Sherlock patted his landlady's hand gently in a calming manner. "Undoubtedly Mrs. Hudson but let's not overreact. As I've heard the culprit have suffered plenty at the hands of John and DI Lestrade."

Both John and Lestrade huffed in disagreement. "Not at all.." John said. "Hardly.." Lestrade followed up, but didn't engage further. Both with murder back in their eyes at the mentioning of the man.

Mrs. Hudson however seemed to accept defeat on the matter and immediately cheered back up again. "Why don't I just pop downstairs and bring us up some cherry scones? They're almost freshly baked.

And with that the atmosphere in the room lifted once again. Mrs. Hudson brought up the lukewarm scones and John made another pot of tea to go around the room. Sherlock sat there, tea in his hands. Just a few years back he'd never dared to dream he'd ever be blessed or deserving enough to be surrounded by friends and loved ones like this. But at this moment he felt more loved and protected than he'd ever done in his entire life and he knew no matter what might happen in the future, he would be surrounded by people who'd fight to keep him safe and happy, as much as he would them.

And he couldn't help the smile blooming on his face at that realisation.

THE END


End file.
